SECTION I.

IT was a dark foggy November morning when I arrived in London. My
lodgings were up two pair of stairs; for I did not yet feel secure of my
permanent success, and had no conception of what awaited me in regard to
society. A respectable sitting room to the front, and a clean, small bedroom
behind seemed to me all that could possibly be desired,—seeing that I was to
have them all to myself. To be sure, they did look very dark, that first
morning of yellow fog: but it was seldom so dark again; and when the spring
came on, and I moved down into the handsomer rooms on the first floor, I
thought my lodgings really pleasant. In the summer mornings, when I made my
coffee at seven o’clock, and sat down to my work, with the large windows
open, the sun‐blinds down, the street fresh watered, and the flower‐girls’
baskets visible from my seat, I wished for nothing better. The evening walks
in the Parks, when London began to grow “empty,” were one of my chief
pleasures; and truly I know few things better than Kensington Gardens and
the Serpentine in the evenings of August and September. I had lived in a
narrow street all my life, except during occasional visits; and I therefore
did not now object to Conduit Street, though it was sometimes
too noisy, or too foggy, or too plashy, or too hot. It is well that I did
not then know the charms of a country residence; or, knowing them, never
thought of them as attainable by me. I have long felt that nothing but
the
page: 140 strongest call of duty could make
me now live in a street; and if I allowed myself to give way to distress at
the mysteries of human life, one of my greatest perplexities would be at so
many people being obliged so to live. Now that I have dwelt for nine years
in a field, where there is never any dust, never any smoke, never any noise;
where my visitors laugh at the idea of the house ever being cleaned, because
it never gets dirty; where there is beauty to be seen from every window, and
in bad weather it is a treat to stand in the porch and see it rain, I cannot
but wonder at my former contentment. I have visited and gone over our old
house in Magdalen Street, at Norwich, within a few years; and I could not
but wonder how my romantic days could ever have come on in such a place.
There it stands,—a handsome, plain brick house, in a narrow street,—Norwich
having nothing but narrow streets. There it is,—roomy and good‐looking
enough; but prosaic to the last degree. Except the vine on its back gable,
there is not an element of naturalness or poetry about it. Yet there were my
dreamy years passed. In my London lodging, a splendid vision was to open
upon me,—one which I am glad to have enjoyed, because it was
enjoyment; and because a diversified experience is good; and because I
really gained much knowledge of human life and character from it. I became
the fashion, and I might have been the “lion” of several seasons, if I had
chosen to permit it. I detested the idea, and absolutely put down the
practice in my own case: but I saw as much of a very varied society as if I
had allowed myself to be lionised, and with a more open mind than if I had
not insisted on being treated simply as a lady or let alone. The change from
my life in Norwich to my life in London was certainly prodigious, and such
as I did not dream of when I exchanged the one for the other. Before we lost
our money, and when I was a young lady “just introduced,” my mother insisted
on taking me to balls and parties, though that sort of visiting was the
misery of my life. My deafness was terribly in the way, both because it made
me shy, and because underbred people, like the card‐players and dancers of a
provincial town, are awkward in such a case. Very few people spoke to me;
and I
page: 141 dare say I looked as if I did not
wish to be spoken to. From the time when I went to London, all that was
changed. People began with me as with a deaf person; and there was little
more awkwardness about hearing, when they had once reconciled themselves to
my trumpet. They came to me in good will, or they would not have come at
all. They and I were not jumbled together by mere propinquity; we met
purposely; and, if we continued our intercourse, it was through some sort of
affinity. I now found what the real pleasures of social intercourse are, and
was deeply sensible of its benefits: but it really does not appear to me
that I was intoxicated with the pleasure, or that I over‐rated the benefit.
I think so because I always preferred my work to this sort of play. I think
so because some sober friends,—two or three whom I could trust,—said, first,
that I might and probably should say and do some foolish things, but that I
should “prove ultimately unspoilable;” and afterwards that I was not
spoiled. I think so because I altered no plan or aim in life on account of
any social distinction; and I think so, finally, because, while vividly
remembering the seven years from 1832 to 1839, and feeling as gratefully and
complacently as ever the kindness and attachment of friends, and the
good‐will of a multitude of acquaintances, I had no inclination to return to
literary life in London after my recovery at Tynemouth, and have for ten
years rejoiced, without pause or doubt, in my seclusion and repose in my
quiet valley. There is an article of mine on “Literary Lionism” in the
London and Westminster Review of April, 1839, which was written when the
subject was fresh in my thoughts and feelings. In consideration of this, and
of my strong repugnance to detailing the incidents of my own reception in
society, on entering the London world, while such an experience cannot be
wholly passed over in an account of my life, I think the best way will be to
cite that article,—omitting those passages only which are of a reviewing
character. By this method, it will appear what my impressions were while in
conflict with the practice of literary lionism; and I shall be spared the
disgusting task of detailing old absurdities and dwelling on old flatterice,
which had myself for their subject.
page: 142 Many
of the stories which I could tell are comic enough; and a few are
exceedingly interesting: but they would be all spoiled, to myself and every
body else, by their relating to myself. The result on my own convictions and
feelings is all that it is necessary to give; and that result can be given
in no form so trustworthy as in the record penned at the time. It must be
remembered that the article appeared in an anonymous form, or some
appearance of conceit and bad taste may hang about even that form of
disclosure.—The statement and treatment of the subject will however lead
forward so far into my London life that I must fill up an intermediate
space. I must give some account of my work before I proceed to treat of my
playhours.

In meditating on my course of life at that time, and gathering together the
evidences of what I was learning and doing, I am less disposed than I used
to be to be impatient with my friends for their incessant rebukes and
remonstrances about over‐work. From the age of fifteen to the moment in
which I am writing, I have been scolded in one form or another, for working
too hard; and I wonder my friends did not find out thirty years ago that
there is no use in their fault‐finding. I am heartily sick of it, I own; and
there may be some little malice in the satisfaction with which I find myself
dying, after all, of a disease which nobody can possibly attribute to
over‐work. Though knowing all along that my friends were mistaken as to what
was moderate and what immoderate work, in other cases than their own (and I
have always left them free to judge and act for themselves) I
have never denied that less toil and more leisure would be wholesome and
agreeable to me. My pleas have been that I have had no power of choice, and
that my critics misjudged the particular case. Almost every one of them has
proceeded on the supposition that the labour of authorship involved immense
“excitement;” and I, who am the quietest of quiet bodies, when let alone in
my business, have been warned against “excitement” till I am fairly sick of
the word. One comfort has always been that those who were witnesses of my
work‐a‐day life always came round to an agreement with me that literary
labour is not necessarily more hurtfully exciting than any other
page: 143 serious occupation. My mother, alarmed at a
distance, and always expecting to hear of a brain fever, used to say, amidst
the whirl of our London spring days, “My dear, I envy your calmness.” And a
very intimate friend, one of the strongest remonstrants, told me
spontaneously, when I had got through a vast pressure of work in her country
house, that she should never trouble me more on that head, as she saw that
my authorship was the fulfillment of a natural function,—conducive to health
of body and mind, instead of injurious to either. It would have saved me
from much annoyance (kindly intended) if others had observed with the same
good sense, and admitted conviction with equal candour. Authorship has never
been with me a matter of choice. I have not done it for amusement, or for
money, or for fame, or for any reason but because I could not help it.
Things were pressing to be said; and there was more or less evidence that I
was the person to say them. In such a ease, it was always impossible to
decline the duty for such reasons as that I should like more leisure, or
more amusement, or more sleep, or more of any thing whatever. If my life
had depended on more leisure and holiday, I could not have
taken it. What wanted to be said must be said, for the sake of the many,
whatever might be the consequences to the one worker concerned. Nor could
the immediate task be put aside, from the remote consideration, for ever
pressed upon me, of lengthening my life. The work called for to‐day must not
be refused for the possible sake of next month or next year. While feeling
far less injured by toil than my friends took for granted I must be, I yet
was always aware of the strong probability that my life would end as the
lives of hard literary workers usually end,—in paralysis, with months or
years of imbecility. Every one must recoil from the prospect of being thus
burdensome to friends and attendants; and it certainly was a matter of keen
satisfaction to me, when my present fatal disease was ascertained, that I
was released from that liability, and should die of something else, far less
formidable to witnesses and nurses. Yet, the contemplation of such a
probability in the future was no reason for declining the duty of the time;
and I could not have written
page: 144 a volume the
less if I had foreknown that, at a certain future day and hour, I should be
struck down like Scott and Southey, and many another faithful labourer in
the field of literature.

One deep and steady conviction, obtained from my own experience and
observation, largely qualified any apprehensions I might have, and was
earnestly impressed by me upon my remonstrating friends; that enormous loss
of strength, energy and time is occasioned by the way in which people go to
work in literature, as if its labours were in all respects different from
any other kind of toil. I am confident that intellectual industry and
intellectual punctuality are as practicable as industry and punctuality in
any other direction. I have seen vast misery of conscience and temper arise
from the irresolution and delay caused by waiting for congenial moods,
favourable circumstances, and so forth. I can speak, after long experience,
without any doubt on this matter. I have suffered, like other writers, from
indolence, irresolution, distaste to my work, absence of “inspiration,” and
all that: but I have also found that sitting down, however reluctantly, with
the pen in my hand, I have never worked for one quarter of an hour without
finding myself in full train: so that all the quarter hours, arguing,
doubting and hesitation as to whether I should work or not which I gave way
to in my inexperience, I now regard as so much waste, not only of time but,
far worse, of energy. To the best of my belief, never but once in my life
left my work because I could not do it: and that single occasion was on the
opening day of an illness. When once experience had taught me that I could
work when I chose, and within a quarter of an hour of my determining to do
so, I was relieved, in a great measure, from those embarrassments and
depressions which I see afflicting many an author who waits for a mood
instead of summoning it, and is the sport, instead of the master, of his own
impressions and ideas.—As far as the grosser physical influences are
concerned, an author has his lot pretty much in his own hands, because it is
in his power to shape his habits in accordance with the laws of nature: and
an author who does not do this has no business with the
page: 145 lofty vocation. I am very far indeed from
desiring to set up my own practices as an example for others; and I do not
pretend that they are wholly rational, or the best possible: but. as the
facts are clear—that I have, without particular advantages of health and
strength, done an unusual amount of work without fatal, perhaps without
injurious consequences, and without the need of pernicious stimulants and
peculiar habits,—it may be as well to explain what my methods were, that
others may test them experimentally, if they choose.

As for my hours,—it has always been my practice to devote my best strength to
my work; and the morning hours have therefore been sacred to it, from the
beginning. I really do not know what it is to take any thing but the pen in
hand, the first thing after breakfast, except of course, in travelling. I
never pass a day without writing; and the writing is always done in the
morning. There have been times when I have been obliged to “work double
tides,” and therefore to work at night: but it has never been a practice;
and I have seldom written any thing more serious than letters by
candlelight. In London, I boiled my coffee at seven or haft‐past, and went
to work immediately till two, when it was necessary to be at liberty for
visitors till four o’clock. It was impossible for me to make calls. I had an
immense acquaintance, no carriage, and no time: and I therefore remained at
home always from two till four, to receive all who came; and I called on
nobody. I knew that I should be quizzed or blamed for giving myself airs:
but I could not help that. I had engaged before I came to London to write a
number of my Series every month for two years; and I could not have
fulfilled my engagement and made morning visits too. Sydney Smith was one of
the quizzers. He thought I might have managed the thing better, by “sending
round an inferior authoress in a carriage to drop the cards.”

When my last visitor departed, I ran out for an hour’s walk, returning in
time to dress and read the newspaper, before the carriage came,—somebody’s
carriage being always sent—to take me out to dinner. An evening visit or two
closed the day’s engagements. I tried my best to get home by twelve or
half‐
page: 146 past, in order to answer the
notes I was sure to find on my table, or to get a little reading before
going to rest between one and two. A very refreshing kind of visit was (and
it happened pretty often) when I walked to the country, or semi‐country
house of an intimate friend, and slept there,—returning before breakfast, or
in time to sit down to my morning’s work. After my mother and aunt joined me
in London, I refused Sunday visiting altogether, and devoted that evening to
my old ladies. So much for the times of working.

I was deeply impressed by something which an excellent clergyman told me one
day, when there was nobody by to bring mischief on the head of the relater.
This clergyman knew the literary world of his time so thoroughly that there
was probably no author of any mark then living in England, with whom he was
not more or less acquainted. It must be remembered that a new generation has
now grown up. He told me that he had reason to believe that there was no
author or authoress who was free from the habit of taking some pernicious
stimulant;—either strong green tea, or strong coffee at night, or wine or
spirits or laudanum. The amount of opium taken, to relieve the wear and tear
of authorship, was, he said, greater than most people had any conception of:
and all literary workers took something. “Why, I do not,” said
I. “Fresh air and cold water are my stimulants.”—“I believe you,” he
replied. “But you work in the morning; and there is much in that.” I then
remembered that when, for a short time, I had to work at night (probably on
one of the Poor‐law tales, while my regular work occupied the mornings) a
physician who called on me observed that I must not allow myself to be
exhausted at the end of the day. He would not advise any alcoholic wine; but
any light wine that I liked might do me good. “You have a cupboard there at
your right hand,” said he. “Keep a bottle of hock and a wine‐glass there,
and help yourself when you feel you want it.”—“No, thank you,” said I. “If I
took wine, it should not be when alone; nor would I help myself to a glass.
I might take a little more and a little more, till my solitary glass might
become a regular tippling habit. I shall avoid the temptation
altogether.”
page: 147 Physicians should
consider well before they give such advice to brain‐worn workers.

As for the method, in regard to the Political Economy Tales, I am not sorry
to have an opportunity of putting it on record.—When I began, I furnished
myself with aH the standard works on the subject of what I then took to be a
science. I had made a skeleton plan of the course, comprehending the four
divisions, Production, Distribution, Exchange and Consumption: and, in order
to save my nerves from being overwhelmed with the thought of what I had
undertaken, I resolved not to look beyond the department on which I was
engaged. The subdivisions arranged themselves as naturally as the primary
ones; and when any subject was episodical (as Slave Labour) I announced it
as such.—Having noted my own leading ideas on the topic before me, I took
down my books, and read the treatment of that particular subject in each of
them, making notes of reference on a separate sheet for each book, and
restraining myself from glancing even in thought towards the scene and
nature of my story till it should be suggested by my collective didactic
materials. It was about a morning’s work to gather hints by this reading.
The next process, occupying an evening, when I had one to spare, or the next
morning, was making the Summary of Principles which is found at the end of
each number. This was the most laborious part of the work, and that which I
certainly considered the most valuable.—By this time, I perceived in what
part of the world, and among what sort of people, the principles of my
number appeared to operate the most manifestly. Such a scene I chose, be it
where it might.

The next process was to embody each leading principle in a character: and the
mutual operation of these embodied principles supplied the action of the
story. It was necessary to have some accessories,—some out‐works to the
scientific erection; but I limited these as much as possible; and I believe
that in every instance, they really were rendered subordinate. An hour or
two sufficed for the outline of my story. If the scene was foreign, or in
any part of England with which I was not familiar, I sent to the library for
books of travel or topography: and the
page: 148
collecting and noting down hints from these finished the second day’s work.
The third day’s toil was the severest. I reduced my materials to chapters,
making a copious table of contents for each chapter on a separate sheet, on
which I noted down, not only the action of the personages and the features
of the scene, but all the political economy which it was their business to
convey, whether by exemplification or conversation,—so as to absorb all the
materials provided. This was not always completed at one sitting, and it
made me sometimes sick with fatigue: but it was usually done in one day.
After that, all the rest was easy. I paged my paper; and then the story went
off like a letter. I never could decide whether I most enjoyed writing the
descriptions, the narrative, or the argumentative or expository
conversations. I liked each best while I was about it.

As to the actual writing,—I did it as I write letters, and as I am writing
this Memoir,—never altering the expression as it came fresh from my brain.
On an average I wrote twelve pages a day,—on large letter paper (quarto, I
believe it is called) the page containing thirty‐three lines. In spite of
all precautions, interruptions occurred very often. The proof‐correcting
occupied some time; and so did sitting for five portraits in the year and
half before I went to America. The correspondence threatened to become
infinite. Many letters, particularly anonymous ones, required or deserved no
answer: but there were others from operatives, young persons, and others
which could be answered without much expenditure of thought, and wear and
tear of interest: said I could not find in my heart to resist such clients.
Till my mother joined me, I never failed to send her a bulky packet weekly;
as much for my own satisfaction as for her’s,—needing as I did to speak
freely to some one of the wonderful scenes which life was now opening to me.
Having no maid, I had a good deal of the business of common life upon my
hands. On the conclusion of a number, I sometimes took two days’ respite;
employing it in visiting some country house for the day and night, and
indulging in eight hours’ sleep, instead of the five, or five and a half,
with which I was otherwise obliged to be satisfied: but it happened more
than once that I finished one
num‐
page: 149 ber
number
at two in the morning, and was at work upon another by nine.
During the whole period of the writing of the three Series,—the Political
Economy, Taxation, and Poor Laws,—I never remember but once sitting down to
read whatever I pleased. That was a summer evening, when I was at home and
my old ladies were out, and I had two hours to do what I liked with. I was
about to go to the United States; and I sat down to study the geography and
relations of the States of the American Union; and extremely interesting I
found it,—so soon as I was hoping to travel through them.

The mode of scheming and constructing my stories having been explained, it
remains to be seen whence the materials were drawn. A review of the sources
of my material will involve some anecdotes which may be worth telling, if I
may judge by my own interest, and that which I witness in others, in the
history of the composition of any well‐known work.

If I remember right, I was busy about the twelfth number,—“French Wines and
Politics,”—when I went to London, in November, 1832. That is, I had done
with the department of Production, and was finishing that of Distribution.
The first three numbers were written before the stir of success began: and
the scenery was furnished by books of travel obtained from the Public
Library, and of farming by the late Dr. Rigby of Norwich,—a friend of the
late Lord Leicester, (when Mr. Coke). The books of travel were
Lichtenstein’s South Africa for “Life in the Wilds:” Edwards’s (and others’)
“West Indies” for “Demerara:” and McCulloch’s “Highlands and Islands of
Scotland” for the two Garveloch stories. Mr. Cropper of Liverpool heard of
the Series early enough to furnish me with some statistics of Shvery for
“Demerara;” and Mr. Hume, in time to send me Blue Books on the Fisheries,
for “Ella of Garveloch.”—My correspondence with Mr. Cropper deserves
mention, in honer of that excellent and devoted man. About the time that the
success of my scheme began to be apparent, there arrived in Norwich a person
who presented himself as an anti‐slavery agent. It was the well‐known
Elliott Cresson, associated with the American Colonization scheme, which
he
page: 150 hoped to pass upon us innocent
provincial Britons as the same thing as anti‐slavery. Many even of the
Quakers were taken in; and indeed there were none but experienced
abolitionists, like the Croppers, who were qualified even to suspect,—much
less to detect,—this agent of the slaveholders and his false pretenses.
Kind‐hearted people, hearing from Mr. Cresson that a slave could be bought
and settled blissfully in Liberia for seven pounds ten shillings, raised the
ransom in their own families and among their neighbours, and thought all was
right. Mr. Cresson obtained an introduction to my mother and me, and came to
tea, and described what certainly interested us very much, and offered to
furnish me with plenty of evidence of the productiveness of Liberia, and the
capabilities of the scheme, with a view to my making it the scene and
subject of one of my tales. I was willing, thinking it would make an
admirable framework for one of my pieces of doctrine; and I promised, not to
write a story, but to consider of it when the evidence should have arrived.
The papers arrived; and my conclusion was—not to write about Liberia. Some
time after, I had a letter from Mr. Cropper, who was a perfect stranger to
me, saying that Eliott Cresson was announcing every where from the platform
in his public lectures that I had promised him to make the colony of Liberia
one of my Illustrations of Political Economy: and it was the fact that the
announcement was made in many places. Mr. Cropper offered to prove to me the
unreliableness of Cresson’s representations, and the true scope and aim of
the Colonization scheme. He appealed to me not to publish in its favour till
I had heard the other side; and offered to bear the expense of suppressing
the whole edition, if the story was already printed. I had the pleasure of
telling him by return of post that I had given no such promise to Mr.
Cresson, and that I had not written, nor intended to write, any story about
Liberia or American Colonization. Before I went to the United States, this
agent of the slaveholders had exposed his true character by lecturing, all
over England, in a libellous tone, against Garrison and the true
abolitionists of America. When I had begun to see into the character and
policy of the enterprise, and before
page: 151 I had
met a single abolitionist in America, I encountered Mr. Cresson, face to
face, in the Senate Chamber at Washington. He was very obsequious; but I
would have nothing to say to him. He was, I believe, the only acquaintance
whom I ever “cut.” It was out of this incident that grew the correspondence
with Mr. Cropper which ended in his furnishing me with material for an
object precisely the reverse of Elliott Cresson’s.

On five occasions in my life I have found myself obliged to write and publish
what I entirely believed would be ruinous to my reputation and prosperity.
In no one of the five cases has the result been what I anticipated. I find
myself at the close of my life prosperous in name and fame, in my
friendships and in my affairs. But it may be considered to have been a
narrow escape in the first instance; for every thing was done that
low‐minded recklessness and malice could do to destroy my credit and
influence by gross appeals to the prudery, timidity, and ignorance of the
middle classes of England. My own innocence of intention, and my refusal to
conceal what I thought and meant, carried me through: but there is no doubt
that the circulation of my works was much and long restricted by the
prejudices indecently and maliciously raised against me by Mr. Croker and
Mr. Lockhart, in the Quarterly Review. I mention these two names, because
Messrs. Croker and Lockhart openly assumed the honour of the wit which they
(if nobody else) saw in the deed; and there is no occasion to suppose any
one else concerned in it. As there is, I believe, some lingering feeling
still,—some doubt about my being once held in horror as a “Malthusian,” I
had better tell simply all I know of the matter.

When the course of my exposition brought me to the Population subject, I,
with my youthful and provincial mode of thought and feeling,—brought up too
amidst the prudery which is found in its great force in our middle
class,—could not but be sensible that I risked much in writing and
publishing on a subject which was not universally treated in the pure,
benevolent, and scientific spirit of Malthus himself. I fell that the
subject was one of science, and therefore perfectly easy to treat in itself;
but I was aware that some evil associations had gathered about it,—though
page: 152 I did not know what they were. While
writing “Weal and Woe in Garveloch,” the perspiration many a time streamed
down my face, though I knew there was not a line in it which might not be
read aloud in any family. The misery arose from my seeing how the simplest
statements and reasoning might and probably would be perverted. I said
nothing to any body; and, when the number was finished, I read it aloud to
my mother and aunt. If there had been any opening whatever for doubt or
dread, I was sure that these two ladies would have given me abundant warning
and exhortation,—both from their very keen sense of propriety and their
anxious affection for me. But they were as complacent and easy as they had
been interested and attentive. I saw that all ought to be safe. But it was
evidently very doubtful whether all would be safe. A few words in a letter
from Mr. Fox put me on my guard. In the course of some remarks on the
sequence of my topics, he wrote, “As for the Population question, let no one
interfere with you. Go straight through it, or you’ll catch
it.” I did go straight through it; and happily I had nearly done when
a letter arrived from a literary woman, who had the impertinence to write to
me now that I was growing famous, after having scarcely noticed me before,
and (of all subjects) on this, though she tried to make her letter decent by
putting in a few little matters besides. I will call her Mrs. Z. as I have
no desire to point out to notice one for whom I never had any respect or
regard. She expressed, on the part of herself and others, an anxious desire
to know how I should deal with the Population question; said that they did
not know what to wish about my treating or omitting it;—desiring it for the
sake of society, but dreading it for me; and she finished by informing me
that a Member of Parliament, who was a perfect stranger to me, had assured
her that I already felt my difficulty; and that he and she awaited my
decision with anxiety. Without seeing at the moment the whole drift of this
letter, I was abundantly disgusted by it, and fully sensible of the
importance of its being answered immediately, and in a way which should
admit of no mistake. I knew my I reply was wanted for show; and I sent one
by return of post which was
page: 153 shown to some
purpose. It stopped speculation in one dangerous quarter. I showed my letter
to my mother and brother; and they emphatically approved it, though it was
rather sharp. They thought, as I did, that some sharpness was well directed
towards a lady who professed to have talked over difficulties of this
nature, on my behalf, with an unknown Member of Parliament by her own
fireside. My answer was this. I believe I am giving the very words; for the
business impressed itself deeply on my mind. “As for the questions you put
about the principles of my Series,—if you believe the Population question to
be, as you say, the most serious now agitating society, you can hardly
suppose that I shall omit it, or that I can have been heedless of it in
forming my plan. I consider it, as treated by Malthus, a strictly
philosophical question. So treating it, I find no difficulty in it; and
there can be no difficulty in it for those who approach it with a single
mind. To such I address myself. If any others should come whispering to me
what I need not listen to, I shall shift my trumpet, and take up my
knitting.” I afterwards became acquainted with the Member of Parliament whom
my undesired correspondent quoted; and I feel confident that his name was
used very unwarrantably, for the convenience of the lady’s prurient
curiosity.—I also saw her. She called on me at my lodgings (to catch a
couple of franks from a Member of Parliament) and she mentioned my
letter,—obtaining no response from me. She was then a near neighbour and an
acquaintance of an intimate friend of mine. One winter morning, I was
surprised by a note from this friend, sent three miles by a special
messenger, to say, “Mrs. Z. purposes to visit you this morning. I conjure
you to take my advice. On the subject which she will certainly introduce, be
deaf, dumb, blind and stupid. I will explain hereafter.” The morning was so
stormy that no Mrs. Anybody could come. My friend’s explanation to me was
this. Mrs. Z. had declared her anxiety to her, in a morning call, to obtain
from me, for her own satisfaction and other people’s, an avowal which might
be reported as to the degree of my knowledge of the controversies which
secretly agitated society on the true bearings of the Population
question.
page: 154 All this was no concern of
mine; and much of it was beyond my comprehension. The whole interference of
Mrs. Z. and her friends (if indeed there was anybody concerned in it but
herself) was odious and impertinent nonsense in my eyes; and the fussy lady
ever found me, as well as my friend, ready to be as “deaf, dumb, blind and
stupid” as occasion might require.—I rather suspect that Mrs. Z. herself was
made a tool of for the purposes of Mr. Lockhart, who employed his
then‐existing intimacy with her to get materials for turning her into
ridicule afterwards. The connexion of Mr. Lockhart with this business
presently appeared.

In an evening party in the course of the winter, I was introduced to a lady
whose name and connexions I had heard a good deal of. Instead of being so
civil as might be anticipated from her eagerness for an introduction, she
was singularly rude and violent, so as to make my hostess very
uncomfortable. She called me “cruel” and “brutal,” and scolded me for my
story—“Cousin Marshall.“ I saw that she was talking at random, and asked her
whether she had read the story. She had not. I good‐humouredly, but
decidedly, told her that when she had read it, we would discuss it, if she
pleased; and that meantime we would drop it. She declared she would not read
it for the world; but she presently followed me about, was kind and
courteous, and finished by begging to be allowed to set me down at my
lodgings. When I alighted, she requested leave to call. She did so, when my
mother was with me for two or three weeks, and invited us to dine at her
house in the country, on the first disengaged day. She called for us, and
told us during our drive that she had resisted the strongest entreaties from
Mr. Lockhart to be allowed to meet me that day. She had some misgiving, it
appeared, which made her steadily refuse; but she invited Lady G—, a
relative of Lockhart’s, and an intimate friend of her own. Lady G. was as
unwilling as Lockhart was eager to come; and very surly she looked when
introduced. She sat within hearing of my host and me at dinner; and as soon
as we returned to the drawing‐room, she took her seat by me, with a totally
changed manner, and conversed kindly and
page: 155
agreeably. I was wholly unaware what lay under all this: but the fact soon
came out that the atrocious article in the Quarterly Review which was
avowedly intended to “destroy Miss Martineau,” was at that time actually
printed; and Mr. Lockhart wanted to seize an opportunity which might be the
last for meeting me,—all unsuspecting as I was, and trusting to his being a
gentleman, on the strength of meeting him in that house. I was long
afterwards informed that Lady G. went to him early the next day, (which was
Sunday) and told him that he would repent of the article, if it was what he
had represented to her; and I know from the printers that Mr. Lockhart went
down at once to the office, and cut out “all the worst passages of the
review,” at great inconvenience and expense. What he could have cut out that
was worse than what stands, it is not easy to conceive.

While all this was going on without my knowledge, warnings came to me from
two quarters that something prodigious was about to happen. Mr. Croker had
declared at a dinner party that he expected a revolution under the whigs,
and to lose his pension; and that he intended to lay by his pension while he
could get it, and maintain himself by his pen; and that he had “begun by
tomahawking Miss Martineau in the Quarterly.” An old gentleman present, Mr.
Whishaw, was disgusted at the announcement and at the manner of it, and,
after consulting with a friend or two, called to tell me of this, and put me
on my guard. On the same day, another friend called to tell me that my
printers (who also printed the Quarterly) thought I ought to know that “the
filthiest thing that had passed through the press for a quarter of a
century” was coming out against me in the Quarterly. I could not conceive
what all this meant; and I do not half understand it now: but it was enough
to perceive that the design was to discredit me by some sort of evil
imputation. I saw at ones what to do. I wrote to my brothers, telling them
what I had heard, and earnestly desiring that they would not read the next
Quarterly. I told them that the inevitable consequence of my brothers taking
up my quarrels would be to close my career. I had entered upon it
independently, and I would
page: 156 pursue it
alone. From the moment that any of them stirred about my affairs, I would
throw away my pen; for I would not be answerable for any mischief or trouble
to them. I made it my particular request that we might all be able to say
that they had not read the article. I believe I am, in fact, the only member
of the family who ever read it.—The day before publication, which happened
to be Good Friday, a friend called on me,—a clergyman who occasionally wrote
for the Quarterly,—and produced the forthcoming number from under his cloak.
“Now,” said he, “I am going to leave this with you. Do not tell me a word of
what you think of it; but just mark all the lies in the margin: and I will
call at the door for it, on my way home in the afternoon.” I did it; sat
down to my work again (secure from visitors on a Good Friday) and then went
out, walking and by omnibus, to dine in the country. I remember thinking in
the omnibus that the feelings called forth by such usage are, after all,
more pleasurable than painful; and again, when I went to bed, that the day
had been a very happy one. The testing of one’s power of endurance is
pleasurable; and the testing of one’s power of forgiveness is yet sweeter:
and it is no small benefit to learn something more of one’s faults and
weaknesses than friends and sympathisers either will or can tell. The
compassion that I felt on this occasion for the low‐minded and foul‐mouthed
creatures who could use their education and position as gentlemen to
“destroy” a woman whom they knew to be innocent of even comprehending their
imputations, was very painful: but, on the other hand, my first trial in the
shape of hostile reviewing was over, and I stood unharmed, and somewhat
enlightened and strengthened. I mentioned the review to nobody; and
therefore nobody mentioned it to me. I heard, some years after, that one or
two literary ladies had said that they, in my place, would have gone into
the mountains or to the antipodes, and never have shown their faces again;
and that there were inquiries in abundance of my friends how I stood it. But
I gave no sign. The reply always was that I looked very well and happy,—just
as usual.—The sequel of the story is that the writer of the original
article, Mr. Poulett Scrope, requested a
page: 157
mutual friend to tell me that he was ready to acknowledge the political
economy of the article to be his; but that he hoped he was too much of a
gentleman to have stooped to ribaldry, or even jest; and that I must
understand that he was not more or less responsible for any thing in the
article which we could not discuss face to face with satisfaction. Messrs.
Lockhart and Croker made no secret of the ribaldry being theirs. When the
indignation of the literary world was strong in regard to this and other
offenses of the same kind, and Mr. Lockhart found he had gone too far in my
case, he spared no intreaties to the lady who made Lady G. meet me to invite
him,—professing great admiration and good‐will, and declaring that I must
know his insults to be mere joking. She was won upon at last, and came one
day with her husband, to persuade me to go over to dinner to meet Mr.
Lockhart. When I persisted in my refusal, she said, in some vexation,—“But
what am I to say to Lockhart?—because I promised him.” I replied, “I have
nothing to do with what you say to Mr. Lockhart: but I will tell
you that I will never knowingly meet Mr. Lockhart; and
that, if I find myself in the same house with him, I will go out at one door
of the drawing‐room when he comes in at the other.” Her husband, hitherto
silent, said, “You are quite right. I would on no account allow you to be
drawn in to an acquaintance with Lockhart at our house: and the only excuse
I can offer for my wife’s rashness is that she has never read that Quarterly
article.” From other quarters I had friendly warnings that Lockhart had set
his mind on making my acquaintance, in order to be able to say that I did
not mind what he had done. He was the only person but two whose acquaintance
I ever refused. I never saw him but once; and that was twenty years
afterwards, when he wore a gloomy and painful expression of countenance, and
walked listlessly along the street and the square, near his own house,
swinging his cane. My companion told me who he was; and we walked along the
other side of the street, having a good and unobserved view of him till he
reached his own house. The sorrows of his later years had then closed down
upon him, and he was sinking under them: but the pity which I felt for
him
page: 158 then was not more hearty, I
believe, than that which filled my mind on that Good Friday, 1833, when he
believed he had “destroyed” me.

As for destroying me,—it was too late, for one thing. I had won my public
before Croker took up his “tomahawk.” The simple fact, in regard to the
circulation of my Series, was that the sale increased largely after the
appearance of the Quarterly review of it, and diminished markedly and
immediately on the publication of the flattering article on it in the
Edinburgh Review. The Whigs were then falling into disrepute among the great
body of the people; and every token of favour from whig quarters was
damaging to me, for a time. In the long run, there is no doubt that the
Quarterly injured me seriously. For ten years there was seldom a number
which had not some indecent jest about me,—some insulting introduction of my
name. The wonder is what could be gained that was worth the trouble: but it
certainly seems to me that this course of imputation originated some obscure
dread of me and my works among timid and superficial readers. For one
instance among many:—a lady, calling on a friend of mine, wondered at seeing
books of mine on the table, within the children’s reach;—they being
“improper books,” she had been told,—declared to be so by the Quarterly
Review. My friend said “Though I don’t agree with you, I know what you are
thinking of. You must carry this home, and read it,”—taking down from the
shelf the volume which contained the Garveloch stories. The visitor
hesitated, but yielded, and a few days after, brought back the book, saying
that this could not be the one, for it was so harmless that her husband had
read it aloud to the young people in the evening. “Well,” said my friend,
“try another.” The lady and her husband read the whole series through in
this way, and never could find out the “improper book.”

And what was all this for? I do not at all know. All that I know is that a
more simple‐minded, virtuous man, full of domestic affections, than Mr.
Malthus, could not be found in all England; and that the desire of his heart
and the aim of his work were that domestic virtue and happiness should be
placed
page: 159 within the reach of all, as
Nature intended them to be. He found, in his day, that a portion of the
people were underfed; and that one consequence of this was a fearful
mortality among infants; and another consequence, the growth of a
recklessness among the destitute which caused infanticide, corruption of
morals, and, at best, marriage between pauper boys and girls, while
multitudes of respectable men and women, who paid rates instead of consuming
them, were unmarried at forty, or never married at all. Prudence as to the
time of marriage, and to making due provision for it was, one would think, a
harmless recommendation enough, under the circumstances. Such is the moral
aspect of Malthus’s work. As to its mathematical basis, there is no one, as
I have heard Mr. Hallam say, who could question it that might not as well
dispute the multiplication table. As for whether Mr. Malthus’s doctrine,
while mathematically indisputable, and therefore assailable in itself only
by ribaldry and corrupt misrepresentation, may not be attacking a difficulty
at the wrong end,—that is a fair matter of opinion. In my opinion, recent
experience shows that it does attack a difficulty at the wrong end. The
repeal of the corn‐laws, with the consequent improvement in agriculture, and
the prodigious increase of emigration have extinguished all present
apprehension and talk of “surplus population,”—that great difficulty of
forty or fifty years ago. And it should be remembered, as far as I am
concerned in the controversy, that I advocated in my Series a free trade in
corn, and exhibited the certainty of agricultural improvement, as a
consequence; and urged a carefully conducted emigration; and, above all,
education without limit. It was my business, in illustrating Political
Economy, to exemplify Malthus’s doctrine among the rest. It was that
doctrine “pure and simple,” as it came from his virtuous and benevolent
mind, that I presented; and the presentment was accompanied by an earnest
advocacy of the remedies which the great natural laws of Society put into
our power,—freedom for bringing food to men, and freedom for men to go where
food is plentiful; and enlightenment for all, that they may provide for
themselves under the guidance of the best intelligence. Mr. Malthus, who did
more
page: 160 for social ease and virtue than
perhaps any other man of his time, was the “best‐abused man” of the age. I
was aware of this; and I saw in him, when I afterwards knew him, one of the
serenest and most cheerful men that society can produce. When I became
intimate enough with the family to talk over such matters, I asked Mr.
Malthus one day whether he had suffered in spirits from the abuse lavished
on him. “Only just at first,” he answered.—“I wonder whether it ever kept
you awake a minute.”—“Never after the first fortnight,” was his reply. The
spectacle of the good man tn his daily life in contrast with the
representations of him in the periodical literature of the time, impressed
upon me, more forcibly than anything in my own experience, the everlasting
fact that the reformers of morality, personal and social, are always subject
at the outset to the imputation of immorality from those interested in the
continuance of corruption.—I need only add that all suspicious speculation,
in regard to my social doctrines, seems to have died out long ago. I was not
ruined by this first risk, any more than by any subsequent enterprises; but
I was probably never so near it as when my path of duty led me among the
snares and pitfalls prepared for the innocent and defenseless by Messrs.
Croker and Lockhart, behind the screen of the Quarterly Review.

The behaviour of the Edinburgh was widely different. From the time of my
becoming acquainted with the literary Whigs who were paramount at that time,
I had heard the name of William Empson on all hands: and it once or twice
crossed my mind that it was odd that I never saw him. Once he left the room
as I entered it unexpectedly: and another time, he ran in among us at
dessert, at a dinner party, to deliver a message to the hostess, and was
gone, without an introduction to me,—the only stranger in company. When his
review of my Series in the Edinburgh was out, and he had ascertained that I
had read it, he caused me to he informed that he had declined an
introduction to me hitherto, because he wished to render impossible all
allegations that I had been favourably reviewed by a personal friend: but
that he was now only awaiting my permission to pay his respects to me. The
review was, to be sure extraordinarily
page: 161
laudatory; but the praise did not seem to me to be very rational and sound;
while the nature of the criticism showed that all accordance between Mr.
Empson and me on some important principles of social morals was wholly out
of the question. His objection to the supposition that society could exist
without capital punishment is one instance of what I mean; and his view of
the morality or immorality of opinions (apart from the process of forming
them) is another. But there was some literary criticism which I was thankful
for; and there was such kindliness and generosity in the whole character of
the man’s mind;—his deeds of delicate goodness came to my knowledge so
abUndantly; and he bore so well certain mortifications about the review with
which he had taken his best pains, that I was as ready as himself to be
friends. And friends we were, for several years. We were never otherwise
than perfectly friendly, though I could not help feeling that every year,
and every experience, separated us more widely in regard to intellectual and
moral sympathy. He was not, from the character of his mind, capable of
having opinions; and he was, as is usual in such cases, disposed to be
afraid of those who had. He was in a perpetual course of being swayed about
by the companions of the day, on all matters but politics. There he was
safe; for he was hedged in on every side by the dogmatic Whigs, who made him
their chief dogmatist. He was full of literary knowledge;—an omnivorous
reader with a weak intellectual digestion. He was not personally the wiser
for his reading; but the profusion that he could pour out gave a certain
charm to his conversation, and even to his articles, which had no other
merit, except indeed that of a general kindliness of spirit. During my
intercourse with him and his set, he married the only child of his old
friend, Lord Jeffrey: and after the death of Mr. Napier, who succeeded
Jeffrey in the editorship of the Edinburgh Review, Mr. Empson accepted the
offer of it,—rather to the consternation of some of his best friends. He had
been wont to shake his head over the misfortunes of the review in Napier’s
time, saying that that gentleman had no literary faculty or cultivation
whatever. When he himself assumed the management, people said we should now
have nothing but
liter‐
page: 162 ature
literature
. Both he and his predecessor, however, inserted (it was
understood) as a matter of course, all articles sent by Whig Ministers, or
by their underlings, however those articles might contradict each other even
in the same number. All hope of real editorship, of political and moral
consistency, was now over; and an unlooked‐for failure in modesty and
manners in good Mr. Empson spoiled the literary prospect; so that the review
lost character and reputation quarter by quarter, while under his charge.
His health had so far, and so fatally, failed before he became Editor, that
he ought not to have gone into the enterprise; and so his oldest and best
friends told him. But the temptation was strong; and, unfortunately, he
could not resist it. Unfortunately, if indeed it is desirable that the
Edinburgh Review should live,—which may be a question. It is a great evil
for such a publication to change its politics radically; and this must be
done if the Edinburgh is to live; for Whiggism has become mere death in
life,—a mere transitional state, now nearly worn out. When Mr. Empson’s
review of me appeared, however, the Whigs were new in office, Jeffrey’s
parliamentary career was an object of high hope to his party, and the
Edinburgh was more regarded than the younger generation can now easily
believe. Mr. Empson’s work was therefore of some consequence to him, to me,
and to the public. As I have said, the sale of my Series declined
immediately,—under the popular notion that I was to be a pet of the Whigs.
As for ourselves, we met very pleasantly at dinner, at his old friend, Lady
S.’s, where nobody else was invited. Thence we all went together to an
evening party; and I seldom entered a drawing‐room afterwards without
meeting my kind‐hearted reviewer.—Such were the opposite histories of my
first appearance in the Edinburgh and Quarterly Reviews.—I may as well add
that I speak under no bias, in either case, of contributor or candidate
interest; for I never wrote or desired to write for either review. I do not
remember that I was ever asked; and I certainly never offered. I think I may
trust my memory so far as to say this confidently.

To return to the subject of the materials furnished to me as I proceeded in
my work. There were still three more numbers
page: 163 written in Norwich, besides those which I have mentioned. The Manchester
operatives were eager to interest me in their controversies about Machinery
and Wages; and it was from them that I received the bundles of documents
which qualified me to write “A Manchester Strike.”

It was while I was about this number that the crisis of the Reform Bill
happened. One May morning, I remember, the people of Norwich went out, by
hundreds and thousands, to meet the mail. At that time, little Willie B—,
the son of the Unitarian Minister at Norwich, used to come every morning to
say certain lessons to my mother, with whom he was a great favourite. On
that morning, after breakfast, in came Willie, looking solemn and
business‐like, and stood before my mother with his arms by his sides, as if
about to say a lesson, and said, “Ma’am, papa sends you his regards, and the
Ministry has resigned.” “Well, Willie, what does that mean?” “I don’t know,
Ma’am.” We, however, knew so well that, for once, and I believe for the only
time in those busy years, I could not work. When my mother came in from
ordering dinner, she found me sitting beside Willie, mending stockings. She
expressed her amazement: and I told her, what pleased her highly, that I
really could not write about twopenny galloons, the topic of the morning,
after hearing of Lord Grey’s resignation. We went out early into the town,
where the people were all in the streets, and the church bells were muffled
and tolling. I do not remember a more exciting day. My publisher wrote a day
or two afterwards, that the London booksellers need not have been afraid of
the Reform Bill, any more than the Cholera, for that during this crisis, he
had sold more of my books than ever. Every thing, indeed, justified my
determination not to defer a work which was the more wanted the more
critical became the affairs of the nation,

In spite of all I could say, the men of Manchester persisted that
my hero was their hero, whose name however I
had never heard. It gratified me to find that my doctrine was well received,
and I may say, cordially agreed in, even at that time, by the leaders of the
genuine Manchester operatives; and they, for
page: 164 their part, were gratified by their great topics of interest being
discussed by one whom they supposed to have “spent all her life in a
cotton‐mill,” as one of their favourite Members of Parliament told me they
did.—It occurs to me that my life ought indeed to be written by myself or
some one else who can speak to its facts; for, if the reports afloat about
me from time to time were to find their way into print after my death, it
would appear the strangest life in the world. I have been assigned a humbler
life than that of the Cotton‐mill. A friend of mine heard a passenger in a
stage‐coach tell another that I was “of very low origin,—having been a
maid‐of‐all‐work.” This was after the publication of my model number of the
“Guide to Service,” done at the request of the Poor‐law Commissioners. My
reply to the request was that I would try, if the Maid‐of‐all‐work might be
my subject. I considered it a compliment, when I found I was supposed to
have been relating my own experience. One aunt of mine heard my Series
extolled (also in a coach) as wonderful for a young creature, seventeen and
no more on her last birthday; and another aunt heard the same praise, in the
same way, but on the opposite ground that I was wonderfully energetic for
eighty‐four! So many people beard that I was dreadfully conceited, and that
my head was turned with success, that I began to think, in spite of very
sober feelings and of abundant self‐distrust, that the account must be true.
A shopman at a printseller’s was heard by a cousin of mine, after the
publication of “Vanderput and Snoek,” giving an impressive account of my
residence in Holland: and, long after, Mr. Laing made inquiries of a
relation about how long I had lived in Norway,—of which “Feats on the Fiord”
were supposed to be an evidence: but I had visited neither country when I
wrote of them, and shall die without seeing Norway now. Every body believed
at one time that I had sought Lord Brougham’s patronage;—and this report I
did not like at all. Another,—that he had written the chief part of the
books,—was merely amusing. Another gave me some little trouble, in the midst
of the amusement;—that I had been married for two years before the Series
was finished, and that I concealed the fact for
conven‐
page: 165 ience
convenience
. More than one of my own relations required the most express and
serious assurance from me that this was not true before they would acquit me
of an act of trickery so unlike me,—who never had any secrets. The husband
thus assigned to me was a gentleman whom I had then never heard of, and whom
I never saw till some years afterwards, when he had long been a married man.
After my Eastern journey in 1846, it was widely reported, and believed in
Paris, that my party and I had quarrelled, as soon as we landed in France;
and that I had gone on by myself, and travelled through those eastern
countries entirely alone. I could not conceive what could be the meaning of
the compliments I received on my “wonderful courage,” till I found how
unwilling people were to credit that I had been well taken care of. My
“Eastern Life” disabused all believers in this nonsense; and I hope this
Memoir will discredit all the absurd reports which may yet be connected with
my station and my doings in life, in the minds of those who know me only
from rumour.

“Cousin Marshall,” which treats of the Poor‐laws, was written and at press
before Lord Brougham had devised his scheme of engaging me to illustrate the
operation of the Poor‐laws. I obtained my material, as to details, from a
brother who was a Guardian, and from a lady who took an interest in
workhouse management. For “Ireland” and “Homes Abroad,” I obtained facts
from Blue‐books on Ireland and Colonization which were among the many by
this time sent me by people who had “hobbies.” These were all that I wrote
at Norwich.

Five of my numbers had appeared before Lord Brougham saw any of them, or knew
any thing about them. He was at Brougham in June, 1832, when Mr.
Drummond,—the Thomas Drummond of sacred memory in Ireland,—sent him my
numbers, up to “Ella of Garveloch” (inclusive). A friend of both was at that
time at Norwich, canvassing for the representation; and Lord Brougham wrote
to him, with his customary vehemence, extolling me and my work, and desiring
him to engage me to illustrate the poor‐laws, in aid of the Commission then
appointed to the work of poor‐law inquiry. It was hardly right
page: 166 in me to listen to any invitation to further
work. That I should have done so for any considerations of fame or money can
never have been believed by any who knew what proposals and solicitations
from all manner of editors and publishers I refused. It was the extreme need
and difficulty of poor‐law reform that won me to the additional task. I had
for many years been in a state of despair about national affairs, on account
of this “gangrene of the state,” as the French commissioners had reported
it, “which it was equally impossible to remove and to let alone.” When Lord
Brougham wrote to his friend an account of the evidence which was actually
obtained, and which would be placed at my disposal; and when he added that
there was an apparent possibility of cure, declaring that his “hopes would
be doubled” if I could be induced to help the scheme, the temptation to
over‐work was irresistible. When I met Lord Brougham in town, he urged me
strongly to promise six numbers within a year. I was steady in refusing to
do more than four altogether: and truly, that was quite enough, in addition
to the thirty numbers of my own Series, (including the “Illustrations of
Taxation.”) These thirty‐four little volumes were produced in two years and
a half,—the greater part of the time being one unceasing whirl of business
and social excitement. After my settlement in London, Lord Brougham called
on me to arrange the plan. He informed me that the evidence would be all
placed in my hands; and that my Illustrations would be published by the
Diffusion Society. He then requested me to name my terms. I declined. He
proceeded to assign the grounds of the estimate he was about to propose,
telling me what his Society and others had given for various works, and why
he considered mine worth more than some to which I likened it. Finally, he
told me I ought not to have less than one hundred pounds apiece for my four
numbers. He said that the Society would pay me seventy‐five pounds on the
day of publication of each; and that he then and there guaranteed to me the
remaining twenty‐five pounds for each. If I did not receive it from the
Society, I should from him. He afterwards told the Secretary of the Society
and two personal friends of his and mine that these were the terms he
page: 167 had offered, and meant to see fulfilled.
I supplied the works which, he declared, fully answered his expectations;
and indeed he sent me earnest and repeated thanks for them. The Society
fulfilled its engagements completely and punctually: but Lord Brougham did
not fulfil his own, more or less. I never saw or heard any thing of the four
times twenty‐five pounds I was to receive to make up my four hundred pounds.
I believe that he was reminded of his engagement, while I was in America, by
those to whom he had avowed it: but I have never received any part of the
money, to this day. I never made direct application to him for it; partly
because I never esteemed or liked him, or relished being implicated in
business with him, after the first flutter was over, and I could judge of
him for myself; and partly because such an amount of unfulfilled promises
lay at his door, at the time of his enforced retirement from power, that I
felt that my application would be, like other people’s applications, as
fruitless as it would be disagreeable. I do not repent doing those tales,
because I hope and believe they were useful at a special crisis: but they
never succeeded to any thing like the extent of my own Series; and it
certainly appeared that all connexion with the Diffusion Society, and Lord
Brougham, and the Whig government, was so much mere detriment to my
usefulness and my influence.

I had better relate here all that I have to say about that batch of Tales.
Lord Brougham sent me all the evidence as it was delivered in by the
Commissioners of Inquiry into the operation of the Poor‐laws. There can be
no stronger proof of the strength of this evidence than the uniformity of
the suggestions to which it gave rise in all the minds which were then
intent on finding the remedy. I was requested to furnish my share of
conclusions and suggestions. I did so, in the form of a programme of
doctrine for my illustrations, some of which expose the evils of the old
system, while others pourtray the features of its proposed successor. My
document actually crossed in the street one sent me by a Member of the
government detailing the heads of the new Bill. I sat down to read it with
no little emotion, and some apprehension; and the moment when, arriving at
the end,
page: 168 I found that the government
scheme and my own were identical, point by point, was not one to be easily
forgotten. I never wrote any thing with more glee than “The Hamlets,”—the
number in which the proposed reform is exemplified: and the spirit of the
work carried me through the great effort of writing that number and
“Cinnamon and Pearls” in one month,—during a country visit in glorious
summer weather.

Soon after my Poor‐law Tales began to appear, I received a message from Mr.
Barnes, Editor‐in‐chief of the “Times,” intimating that the “Times” was
prepared to support my work, which would be a valuable auxiliary of the
proposed reform. I returned no answer, not seeing that any was required from
an author who had never had any thing to do with her reviewers, or made any
interest in reviews. I said this to the friend who delivered the message,
expressing at the same time my satisfaction that the government measure was
to have the all‐powerful support of the “Times.” The Ministers were assured
of the same support by the same potentate. How the other newspapers would go
there was no saying, because the proposed reform was not a party measure;
but, with the “Times” on our side we felt pretty safe. It was on the
seventeenth of April, 1834, that Lord Althorp introduced the Bill. His
speech, full of facts, earnest, and deeply impressive, produced a strong
effect on the House; and the Ministers went home to bed with easy
minds,—little imagining what awaited them at the breakfast table. It was no
small vexation to me, on opening the “Times” at breakfast on the eighteenth,
to find a vehement and total condemnation of the New Poor‐law. Every body in
London was asking how it happened. I do not know, except in as far as I was
told by some people who knew more of the management of the paper than the
world in general. Their account was that the intention had really been, up
to the preceding day, to support the measure; but that such reports arrived
of the hostility of the country‐justices,—a most important class of
customers,—that a meeting of proprietors was held in the evening, when the
question of supporting or opposing the measure was put to the vote. The
policy of humouring the country‐justices was carried by one vote. So went
the story.
page: 169 Another anecdote, less openly
spoken of, I believe to have been true. Lord Brougham wrote a note, I was
told, to Lord Althorp, the same morning, urging him to timely attendance at
the Cabinet Council, as it must be immediately decided whether Barnes, (who
was not very favourably described,) and the “Times” should be propitiated or
defied. A letter or message arriving from Lord Althorp which rendered the
sending the note unnecessary, Lord Brougham tore it up, and threw it into
the waste‐basket under the table. The fragments were by somebody or other
abstracted from the basket, pasted together, and sent to Mr. Barnes, whose
personal susceptibility was extreme. From that day began the baiting of Lord
Brougham in the “Times” which set every body inquiring what so fierce a
persecution could mean; and the wonder ceased only when the undisciplined
politician finally fell from his rank as a statesman, and forfeited the
remains of his reputation within two years afterwards. A searching domestic
inquiry was instituted; but, up to the time of my being told the story, no
discovery had been made of the mischief‐maker who had picked up the scraps
of the note.

After talking over the debate and the comment on it with my mother and aunt,
that April morning, I went up to my study to work, and was presently
interrupted by a note which surprised me so much that I carried it to my
mother. It was from a lady with whom I had only a very slight
acquaintance,—the wife of a Member of Parliament of high consideration. This
lady invited me to take a drive with her that morning, and mentioned that
she was going to buy plants at a nursery. My mother advised me to leave my
work early, for once, and go, for the fresh air and the pleasure. My
correspondent called for me, and, before we were off the stones, out came
the reason of the invitation. Her husband was aghast at the course of the
“Times,” and had been into the City to buy the “Morning Chronicle,”—then a
far superior paper to what it has been since. He and a friend were now the
proprietors of the “Chronicle,” and no time was to be lost in finding
writers who could and would support the New Poor‐law. I was the first to be
invited, because I was known to have been acquainted with the principles and
pro‐
page: 170 visions
provisions
of the measure from the beginning. The invitation to me was to
write “leaders” on the New Poor‐law, as long as such support should be
wanted. I asked why the proprietor did not do it himself, and found that he
was really so engaged in parliamentary committees as to be already
over‐worked. I declared myself over‐worked too; but I was entreated to take
a few hours for consideration. An answer was to be sent for at five o’clock.
My mother and I talked the matter over. The inducements were very strong;
for I could not but see that I was the person for the work: but my mother
said it would kill me,—busy as I was at present. I believed that it would
injure my own Series; and I therefore declined.—For many months afterwards,
even for years, it was a distasteful task to read the “Times” on the New
Poor‐law,—so venomous, so unscrupulous, so pertinacious, so mischievous in
intention, and so vicious in principle was its opposition to a reform which
has saved the state. But, as the reform was strong enough to stand, this
hostility has been eventually a very great benefit. Bad as was the spirit of
the opposition, it assumed the name of humanity, and did some of the work of
humanity. Every weak point of the measure was exposed, and every
extravagance chastised. Its righteousness and principled humanity were
ignored; and every accidental pressure or inconvenience was made the most
of. The faults of the old law were represented (as by Mr. Dickens in “Oliver
Twist”) as those of the new, and every effort was made to protract the
exercise of irresponsible power by the country justices: but the measure was
working, all the while, for the extinction of the law‐made vices and
miseries of the old system; and the process was aided by the stimulating
vigilance of the “Times,” which evoked at once the watchfulness and activity
of officials and the spirit of humanity in society,—both essential
conditions of the true working of the new law.—My share in the punishment I
could never understand. Neither my mother nor I mentioned to any person
whatever the transaction of that morning: but in a few days appeared a
venomous attack on the Member of Parliament who had bought the “Chronicle,”
in the course of which he was taunted with going to a young lady in
page: 171 Fludyer Street for direction in his
political conduct. After that, there were many such allusions:—my friends
were appealed to to check my propensity to write about all things
whatsoever,—the world having by this time quite books enough of mine: and
the explanation given of the ill success and bad working of the Whig
measures was that the Ministers came to me for them. This sort of treatment
gave me no pain, because I was not acquainted with any body belonging to the
“Times,” and I was safe enough with the public by this time: but I thought
it rather too much when Mr. Sterling, “the Thunderer of the Times,” and at
that period editor‐in‐chief, obtained an invitation to meet me, after the
publication of my books on America, alleging that he himself had never
written a disrespectful word of me. My reply was that he was responsible, as
editor, and that I used the only method of self‐defence possible to a woman
under a course of insult like that, in declining his acquaintance. Not long
afterwards, when I was at Tynemouth, hopelessly ill, poor and helpless, the
“Times” abused and insulted me for privately refusing a pension. Again Mr.
Sterling made a push for my acquaintance; and I repeated what I had said
before: whereupon he declared that “it cut him to the heart” that I should
impute to him the ribaldry and coarse insults of scoundrels and ruffians who
treated me as I had been treated in the “Times.” I dare say what he said of
his own feelings was true enough; but it will never do for responsible
editors, like Sterling and Lockhart, to shirk their natural retribution for
the sins of their publications by laying the blame on some impalpable
offender who, on his part, has very properly relied on their responsibility.
It appears to me that social honesty and good faith can be preserved only by
thus enforcing integrity in the matter of editorial responsibility.

A curious incident occurred, much to the delight of my Edinburgh reviewer, in
connexion with that story,—“The Hamlets,”—which, as I have said, I enjoyed
writing exceedingly. While I was preparing its doctrine and main facts, I
went early one summer morning, with a sister, to the Exhibition at Somerset
House, (as it was in those days). I stopped before a picture by
page: 172 Collins,—“Children at the Haunts of the
Sea‐fowl;” and, after a good study of it, I told my sister that I had before
thought of laying the scene by the sea‐side, and that this bewitching
picture decided me. The girl in the corner, in the red petticoat, was
irresistible; and she should be my heroine. There should be a heroine,—a
girl and a boy, instead of two boys. I did this, and, incited by old
associations, described myself and a brother (in regard to character) in
these two personages. Soon after, at a music‐party, my hostess begged to
introduce to me Mr. Collins the artist, who wished to make his
acknowledgments for some special obligation he was under to me. This seemed
odd, when I was hailing the opportunity for precisely the same reason. Mr.
Collins begged to shake hands with me because I had helped him to his great
success at the Academy that year. He explained that Mrs. Marcet had paid him
a visit when he had fully sketched, and actually begun his picture, and had
said to him “Before you go on with this, you ought to read Miss Martineau’s
description in ‘Ella of Garveloch’ of destroying the eagle’s nest.” Mr.
Collins did so, and in consequence altered his picture in almost every part;
and now, in telling me the incident, he said that his chief discontent with
his work was not having effaced the figure of the girl in the corner. He was
reconciled to her, however, when I told him that the girl in the red
petticoat was the heroine of the story I was then writing. This incident
strikes me as a curious illustration of the way in which minds play into one
another when their faculties of conception and suggestion are kindred,
whatever may be their several modes of expression. One of my chief social
pleasures was meeting Wilkie, and planning pictures with him, after his old
manner, though alas! he was now painting in his new. He had returned from
Spain, with his portfolios filled with sketches of Spanish ladies, peasants
and children; and he enjoyed showing these treasures of his, I remember, to
my mother and me one day when we went by invitation to Kensington, to see
them. But his heart was, I am sure, in his old style. He used to watch his
opportunity,—being very shy,—to get a bit of talk with me unheard, about
what illustrations of my stories should be,
page: 173 saying that nothing would make him so happy, if he were but able, as to
spend the rest of his painting‐life in making a gallery from my Series. He
told me which group or action he should select from each number, as far as
then published, and dwelt particularly, I remember, on the one in “Ireland,”
which was Dora letting down her petticoat from her shoulders as she entered
the cabin. I write this in full recollection of Wilkie’s countenance, voice
and words, but in total forgetfulness of my own story, Dora, and the cabin.
I have not the book at hand for reference, but I am sure I am reporting
Wilkie truly. He told me that he thought the resemblance of our respective
mind’s‐eyes was perfectly singular; and that, for aught he saw, each of us
might, as well as not, have done the other’s work, as for as the pictorial
faculties were concerned.

I have one more little anecdote to tell about the heroine “The Hamlets.” I
was closely questioned by Miss Berry, one day when dining there, about the
sources of my draughts of character,—especially of children,—and above all,
of Harriet and Ben in “The Hamlets.” I acknowledged that these last were
more like myself and my brother than any body else. Whereupon the lively old
lady exclaimed, loud enough to be heard by the whole party, “My God! did you
go out shrimping?” “No,” I replied: “nor were we workhouse children, What
you asked me about was the characters.”

While these Poor‐law tales were appearing, I received a letter from Mrs. Fry,
requesting an interview for purposes of importance, at any time and place I
might appoint. I appointed a meeting in Newgate, at the hour on a Tuesday
morning when Mrs. Fry was usually at that post of sublime duty. Wishing for
a witness, as our interview was to be one of business, I took with me a
clerical friend of mine as an appropriate person. After the usual services,
Mrs. Fry led the way into the Matron’s room, where we three sat down for our
conference. Mrs. Fry’s objects were two. The inferior one was to engage me
to interest the government in her newly planned District Societies. The
higher one was connected with the poor‐law reform then in preparation. She
told me that her brother, J.J. Gurney, and other
page: 174 members of her family had become convinced by
reading “Cousin Marshall” and others of my tales that they had been for a
long course of years unsuspectingly doing mischief where they meant to do
good; that they were now convinced that the true way of benefitting the poor
was to reform the Poor‐law system; and that they were fully sensible of the
importance of the measure to be brought forward, some months hence, in
parliament. Understanding that I was in the confidence of the government as
to this measure, they desired to know whether I could honourably give them
an insight into the principles on which it was to be founded. Their object
in this request was good. They desired that their section of the House of
Commons should have time and opportunity to consider the subject, which
might not be attainable in the hurry of a busy session. On consideration, I
had no scruple in communicating the principles, without, of course, any
disclosure of the measures. Mrs. Fry noted them down, with cheerful thanks,
and assurances that they would not be thrown away. They were not thrown
away. That section of Members came well prepared for the hearing of the
measure, and one and all unflinchingly supported it.

From the time of my settlement in London, there was no fear of any dearth of
information on any subject which I wished to treat. Every party, and every
body who desired to push any object, forwarded to me all the information
they held. It was, in fact, rather ridiculous to see the onset on my
acquaintances made by riders of hobbies. One acquaintance of mine told me,
as I was going to his house to dinner, that three gentlemen had been at his
office that morning;—one beseeching him to get me to write a number on the
navigable rivers of Ireland; a second on (I think) the Hamiltonian (or
other) system of Education; and a third, who was confident that the welfare
of the nation depended on it, on the encouragement of flax‐growing in the
interior of Guiana. Among such applicants, the Socialists were sure to be
found; and Mr. Owen was presently at my ear, laying down the law in the way
which he calls “proof,” and really interesting me by the candour and
cheerfulness, the benevolence and charming manners which would make him the
most
page: 175 popular man in England if he
could but distinguish between assertion and argument, and abstain from
wearying his friends with his monotonous doctrine. If I remember right, it
was after my anti‐socialist story, “For Each and for All,” that I became
acquainted with Mr. Owen himself; but the material was supplied by his
disciples,—for the chance of what use I might make of it: so that I was
perfectly free to come out as their opponent. Mr. Owen was not at all
offended at my doing so. Having still strong hopes of Prince Metternich for
a convert, he might well have hopes of me: and, believing Metternich to be,
if the truth were known, a disciple of his, it is no wonder if I also was
given out as being so. For many months, my pleasant visitor had that hope of
me; and when he was obliged to give it up, it was with a kindly sigh. He was
sure that I desired to perceive the truth; but I had got unfortunately
bewildered. I was like the traveller who could not see the wood for the
trees. I cannot recal that story, more or less; (“For Each and All;”) but I
know it must have contained the stereotyped doctrine of the Economists of
that day. What I witnessed in America considerably modified my views on the
subject of Property; and from that time forward I saw social modifications
taking place which have already altered the tone of leading Economists, and
opened a prospect of further changes which will probably work out in time a
totally new social state. If that should ever happen, it ought to be
remembered that Robert Owen was the sole apostle of the principle in England
at the beginning of our century. Now that the Economy of Association is a
fact acknowledged by some of our most important recent institutions,—as the
London Clubs, our Model Lodging‐houses, and dozens of new methods of
Assurance, every one would willingly assign his due share of honour to
Robert Owen, but for his unfortunate persistency in his other characteristic
doctrine,—that Man is the creature of circumstances,—his notion of
“circumstances” being literally surroundings, no allowance, or
a wholly insufficient allowance, being made for constitutional structure and
differences. His certainty that we might make life a heaven, and his
hallucination that we are going to do so
page: 176
immediately, under his guidance, have caused his wisdom to be overlooked in
his absurdity, and his services to be too nearly forgotten in vexation and
fatigue at his eccentricity. I own I became weary of him, while ashamed,
every time I witnessed his fine temper and manners, of having felt so. One
compact that we made, three parts in earnest, seems to me, at this distance
of time, excessively ludicrous. I saw that he was often wide of the mark, in
his structures on the religious world, through his ignorance of the Bible;
and I told him so. He said he knew the Bible so well as to have been
heartily sick of it in his early youth. He owned that he had never read it
since. He promised to read the four Gospels carefully, if I would read
“Hamlet,” with a running commentary of Necessarian doctrine in my own mind.
My share was the easier, inasmuch as I was as thoroughgoing a Necessarian as
he could desire. I fulfilled my engagement, internally laughing all the
while at what Shakspere would be thinking, if he could know what I was
about. No doubt, Mr. Owen did his part too, like an honourable man; and no
doubt with as much effect produced on him by this book as by every other, as
a blind man in the presence of the sunrise, or a deaf one of an oratorio.
Robert Owen is not the man to think differently of a book for having read
it; and this from no want of candour, but simply from more than the usual
human inability to see any thing but what he has made up his mind to
see.

I cannot remember what put the scene and story of my twelfth number, “French
Wines and Politics,” into my head: but I recall some circumstances about
that and the following number, “The Charmed Sea,” which amused me extremely
at the time. Among the very first of my visitors at my lodgings was Mrs.
Marcet, whose “Conversations” had revealed to me the curious fact that, in
my early tales about Wages and Machinery, I had been writing Political
Economy without knowing it. Nothing could be more kindly and generous than
her acknowledgment and enjoyment of what she called my “honours.” The best
of it was, she could never see the generosity on which her old friends
complimented her, because, by her own account, there was no sort of
rivalship between us. She had a great opinion
page: 177 of great people;—of people great by any
distinction,—ability, office, birth and what not: and she innocently
supposed her own taste to be universal. Her great pleasure in regard to me
was to climb the two flights of stairs at my lodgings (asthma
notwithstanding) to tell me of great people who were admiring, or at least
reading, my Series. She brought me “hommages” and all that sort of thing,
from French savans, foreign ambassadors, and others; and, above all the rest
was her satisfaction in telling me that the then new and popular sovereign,
Louis Philippe, had ordered a copy of my Series for each member of his
family, and had desired M. Guizot to introduce a translation of it into the
national schools. This was confirmed, in due time, by the translator, who
wrote to me for some particulars of my personal history, and announced a
very large order for the work from M. Guizot. Before I received this letter,
my twelfth number was written, and I think in the press. About the same
time, I heard from some other quarter, (I forget what) that the Emperor of
Russia had ordered a copy of the Series for every member of his
family; and my French translator wrote to me, some time afterwards, that a
great number of copies had been bought, by the Czar’s order, for his schools
in Russia. While my twelfth number was printing, I was writing the
thirteenth, “The Charmed Sea,”—that sea being the Baikal Lake, the scenery
Siberian, and the personages exiled Poles. The Edinburgh Review charged me
with relaxing my Political Economy for the sake of the fiction, in this
case,—the reviewer having kept his article open for the appearance of the
latest number obtainable before the publication of the review. There was
some little mistake about this; the fact being that the bit of doctrine I
had to deal with,—the origin of currency,—hardly admitted of any
exemplification at all. Wherever the scene had been laid, the doctrine would
have been equally impracticable in action, and must have been conveyed
mainly by express explanation or colloquial commentary. If any action were
practicable at all, it must be in some scene where the people were at the
first remove from a state of barter: and the Poles in Siberia, among
Mongolian neighbours, were perhaps as good for my purpose as any other
page: 178 personages. Marco Polo’s account of the
stamped leather currency he met with in his travels determined me in regard
to Asiatic scenery, in the first place; and the poet Campbell’s appeals to
me in behalf of the Poles, before I left Norwich, and the visits of the
venerable Niemcewicz, and other Poles and their friends, when I went to
London, made me write of the Charmed Sea of Siberia. My reviewer was right
as to the want of the due subordination of other interests to that of the
science; but he failed to perceive that that particular bit of science was
abstract and uninteresting. I took the hint, however; and from that time I
was on my guard against making my Series a vehicle for any of the “causes”
of the time. I saw that if my Edinburgh reviewer could not perceive that
some portions of doctrine were more susceptible of exemplification than
others, such discrimination was not to be expected of the whole public; and
I must afford no occasion for being supposed to be forsaking my main object
for such temporary interests as came in my way.—Meantime, the incidents
occurred which amused my friends and myself so much, in connexion with these
two numbers. On the day of publication of the twelfth, Mrs. Marcet climbed
my stair‐case, and appeared, more breathless than ever, at a somewhat early
hour,—as soon as my door was open to visitors. She was in a state of
distress and vexation. “I thought I had told you,” said she, in the midst of
her panting,—“but I suppose you did not hear me:—I thought I had told you
that the King of the French read all your stories, and made all his family
read them: and now you have been writing about Egalité; and they will never
read you again.” I told her I had heard her very well; but it was not
convenient to me to alter my story, for no better reason than that. It was
from history, and not from private communication, that I drew my materials;
and I had no doubt that Louis Philippe and his family thought of his father
very much as I did. My good friend could not see how I could hope to be
presented at the Tuileries after this: and I could only say that it had
never entered my head to wish it. I tried to turn the conversation to
account by impressing on my anxious friend the hopelessness of all attempts
to induce me to alter my stories
page: 179 from such
considerations as she urged. I wrote with a view to the people, and
especially the most suffering of them; and the crowned heads must, for once,
take their chance for their feelings. A month after, I was subjected to
similar reproaches about the Emperor of Russia. He was, in truth, highly
offended. He ordered every copy of my Series to be delivered up, and then
burnt or deported; and I was immediately forbidden the empire. His example
was followed in Austria; and thus, I was personally excluded, before my
Series was half done, from two of the three greatest countries in Europe,
and in disfavour with the third—supposing I wished to go there. My friends,
Mr. and Mrs. F—, invited me to go to the south of Europe with them on the
conclusion of my work: and our plan was nearly settled when reasons appeared
for my going to America instead. My friends went south when I went west.
Being detained by inundation on the borders of Austrian Italy, they were
weary of their dull hotel. All other amusement being exhausted, Mr. F—
sauntered round the open part of the house, reading whatever was hung
against the walls. One document contained the names and description of
persons who were not to be allowed to pass the frontier; and mine was among
them. If I had been with my friends, our predicament would have been
disagreeable. They could not have deserted me; and I must have deprived them
of the best part of their journey.

In planning my next story, “Berkeley the Banker,” I submitted myself to my
reviewer’s warning, and spared no pains in thoroughly incorporating the
doctrine and the tale. I remember that, for two days, I sat over my
materials from seven in the morning till two the next morning, with an
interval of only twenty minutes for dinner. At the end of my plotting, I
found that, after all, I had contrived little but relationships, and that I
must trust to the uprising of new involutions in the course of my narrative.
I had believed before, and I went on during my whole career of
fiction‐writing to be more and more thoroughly convinced, that the creating
a plot is a task above human faculties. It is indeed evidently the same
power as that of prophecy: that is, if all human action is (as we know it to
be) the
inevita‐
page: 180 ble
inevitable
result of antecedents, all the antecedents must be thoroughly
comprehended in order to discover the inevitable catastrophe. A mind which
can do this must be, in the nature of things, a prophetic mind, in the
strictest sense; and no human mind is that. The only thing to be done,
therefore, is to derive the plot from actual life, where the work is
achieved for us: and, accordingly, it seems that every perfect plot in
fiction is taken bodily from real life. The best we know are so derived.
Shakspere’s are so: Scott’s one perfect plot (“the Bride of Lammermoor”) is
so; and if we could know where Boccaccio and other old narrators got theirs,
we should certainly find that they took them from their predecessors, or
from the life before their eyes. I say this from no mortification at my own
utter inability to make a plot. I should say the same, (after equal study of
the subject) if I had never tried to write a tale. I see the inequality of
this kind of power in contemporary writers; an inequality wholly independent
of their merits in other respects; and I see that the writers (often
inferior ones) who have the power of making the best plots do it by their
greater facility in forming analogous narratives with those of actual
experience. They may be, and often are, so inferior as writers of fiction to
others who cannot make plots that one is tempted to wish that they and their
superiors could be rolled into one, so as to make a perfect novelist or
dramatist. For instance, Dickens cannot make a plot,—nor Bulwer,—nor Douglas
Jerrold, nor perhaps Thackeray; while Fanny Kemble’s forgotten “Francis the
First,” written in her teens, contains mines of plot, sufficient to furnish
a groundwork for a score of fine fictions. As for me, my incapacity in this
direction is so absolute that I always worked under a sense of despair about
it. In “the Hour and the Man,” for instance, there are prominent personages
who have no necessary connexion whatever with the story; and the personages
fall out of sight, till at last, my hero is alone in his dungeon, and the
story ends with his solitary death. I was not careless, nor unconscious of
my inability. It was inability, “pure and simple.” My only resource
therefore was taking suggestion from facts, witnessed by myself, or gathered
in any way I could. That tale of “
Berke‐
page: 181 ley
Berkeley
the Banker” owed its remarkable success, not to my hard work of
those two days; but to my taking some facts from the crisis of 1825‐6 for
the basis of my story. The toil of those two days was not thrown away,
because the amalgamation of doctrine and narrative was more complete than it
would otherwise have been: but no protraction of the effort would have
brought out a really good plot, any more than the most prodigious amount of
labour in practicing would bring out good music from a performer unendowed
with musical faculty.

That story was, in a great degree, as I have already said, our own family
history of four years before. The most amusing thing to me was that the
relative (not one of my nearest relations) who was presented as
Berkeley,—(by no means exactly, but in the main characteristics and in some
conspicuous speeches) was particularly delighted with that story. He seized
it eagerly, as being about banking, and expressed his admiration, far and
wide, of the character of the banker, as being so extremely natural! His
unconscious pleasure was a great relief to me: for, while I could not resist
the temptation his salient points offered me, I dreaded the consequences of
my free use of them.

About the next number, “Vanderput and Snoek,” I have a curious confession to
make. It was necessary to advertise on the cover of each tale the title of
the next. There had never been any difficulty thus far,—it being my
practice, as I have said, to sit down to the study of a new number within a
day or two, or a few hours, of finishing its predecessor. My banking story
was, however, an arduous affair; and I had to write the first of my Poor‐law
series. I was thus driven so close that when urged by the printer for the
title of my next number, I was wholly unprepared. All I knew was that my
subject was to be Bills of Exchange. The choice of scene lay between Holland
and South America, where Bills of Exchange are, or then were, either more
numerous or more important than any where else. I thought Holland on the
whole the more convenient of the two; so I dipped into some book about that
country (Sir William Temple, I believe it was) picked out the two ugliest
Dutch names I could find, made them into a firm, and boldly
page: 182 advertised them. Next, I had to consider how to
work up to my title: and in this I met with most welcome assistance from my
friends, Mr. and Mrs. F—, of Highbury. They were well acquainted with the
late British Consul at Rotterdam, then residing in their neighbourhood. They
had previously proposed to introduce me to this gentleman, for the sake of
the information he could give me about Dutch affairs: and I now hastened to
avail myself of the opportunity. The ex‐consul was made fully aware of my
object, and was delighted to be of use. We met at Mr. F.’s breakfast table;
and in the course of the morning he gave me all imaginable information about
the aspect and habits of the country and people. When I called on his lady,
some time afterwards, I was struck by the pretty picture presented by his
twin daughters, who were more exactly alike than any other twins I have ever
seen. They sat beside a worktable, at precisely the same angle with it: each
had a foot on a footstool, for the sake of her netting. They drew their silk
through precisely at the same instant, and really conveyed a perplexing
impression of a mirror where mirror there was none. The Dromios could not be
more puzzling. The temptation to put these girls into a story was too strong
to be resisted: but, as I knew the family were interested in my Series at
the moment, I waited a while. After a decent interval, they appeared in “The
Park and the Paddock;” and then only in regard to externals; for I knew
nothing more of them whatever.

When I had to treat of Free Trade, I took advantage, of course, of the
picturesque scenery and incidents connected with smuggling. The only
question was what part of the coast I should choose for my seventeenth and
eighteenth numbers, “The Loom and the Lugger.” I questioned all my relations
and friends who had frequented Eastbourne and that neighbourhood about the
particulars of the locality and scenery. It struck me as curious that, of
all the many whom I asked, no one could tell me whether there was a
lighthouse at Beachy Head. A cousin told me that she was acquainted with a
farmer’s family living close by Beachy Head, and in the very midst of the
haunts of the smugglers. This farmer was under some obligation to my
page: 183 uncle, and would be delighted at the
opportunity of rendering a service to any of the name. My publisher was
willing to set down the trip to the account of the expenses of the Series;
and I went down, with a letter of introduction in my hand, to see and learn
all I could in the course of a couple of days. My time was limited, not only
by the exigencies of my work, but by an engagement to meet my Edinburgh
reviewer for the first time,—as I have mentioned above,—and to another very
especial party for the same evening. On a fine May evening, therefore, I
presented myself at the farm‐house door, with my letter in my hand. I was
received with surpassing grace by two young girls,—their father and elder
sister being absent at market. Tea was ready presently; and then, one of the
girls proposed a walk to “the Head” before dark. When we returned, every
thing was arranged; and the guest chamber looked most tempting to an
overworked Londoner. The farmer and one daughter devoted the whole of the
next day to me. We set forth, carrying a new loaf and a bottle of beer, that
we might not be hurried in our explorations. I then and there learned all
that appears in “The Loom and the Lugger” about localities and the doings of
smugglers. Early the following morning I went to see Pevensey Castle, and in
the forenoon was in the coach on my way back to town. I was so cruelly
pressed for time that, finding myself alone in the coach, I wrote on my
knees all the way to London, in spite of the jolting. At my lodging, I was
in consternation at seeing my large round table heaped with the letters and
parcels which had arrived during those two days. I dispatched fourteen
notes, dressed, and was at Lady S.’s by the time the clock struck six. The
quiet, friendly dinner was a pure refreshment: but the evening party was a
singular trial. I had been compelled to name the day for this party, as I
had always been engaged when invited by my hostess. I thought it odd that my
name was shouted by the servants, in preference to that of Lady C—, with
whom I entered the room: and the way in which my hostess took possession of
me, and began to parade me before her noble and learned guests showed me
that I must at once take my part, if I
page: 184
desired to escape the doom of “lionising.” The lady, having two
drawing‐rooms open, had provided a “lion” for each. Rammohun Roy was
stationed in the very middle of one, meek and perspiring; and I was intended
for the same place in the other. I saw it just in time. I took my stand with
two or three acquaintances behind the folding‐doors, and maintained my
retirement till the carriage was announced. If this was bad manners, it was
the only alternative to worse. I owe to that incident a friendship which has
lasted my life. That friend, till that evening known to me only by name, had
been behind the scenes, and had witnessed all the preparations; and very
curious she was to see what I should do. If I had permitted the lionising,
she would not have been introduced to me. When I got behind the door, she
joined our trio; and we have been intimate friends to this day. Long years
after, she gave me her account of that memorable evening. What a day it was!
When Lady S. set me down at midnight, and I began to undress, and feel how
weary I was, it seemed incredible that it was that very morning that I had
seen Pevensey Castle, and heard the dash of the sea, and listened to the
larks on the down. The concluding thought, I believe, before I fell into the
deep sleep I needed, was that I would never visit a second time at any house
where I was “lionised.”

The Anti‐corn law tale, “Sowers not Reapers,” cost me great labour,—clear as
was the doctrine, and familiar to me for many a year past. I believe it is
one of the most successful for the incorporation of the doctrine with the
narrative: and the story of the Kays is true, except that, in real life, the
personages were gentry. I had been touched by that story when told it, some
years before; and now it seemed to fit in well with my other materials. Two
years afterwards I met with a bit of strong evidence of the monstrous vice
and absurdity of our corn‐laws in the eyes of Americans. This story, “Sowers
not Reapers,” was republished in America while I was there; and Judge Story,
who knew more about English laws, manners and customs, condition,
literature, and even topography than any other man in the United States,
told me that I need not expect his country‐
page: 185 men in general to understand the book, as even he, after all his
preparedness, was obliged to read it twice,—first to familiarise himself
with the conception, and then to study the doctrine. Thus incredible was it
that so proud and eminent a nation as ours should persist in so insane and
suicidal a policy as that of protection, in regard to the most indispensable
article of food.

Among the multitude of letters of suggestion which had by this time been sent
me, was an anonymous one from Oxford, which gave me the novel information
that the East India Company constituted a great monopoly. While thinking
that, instead of being one, it was a nest of monopolies (in 1833) I
speculated on which of them I might best take for an illustration of my
anti‐monopoly doctrine. I feared an opium story might prove immoral, and I
did not choose to be answerable for the fate of any Opium‐eaters. Salt was
too thirsty a subject for a July number. Cinnamon was fragrant, and pearls
pretty and cool: and these, of course, led me to Ceylon for my scenery. I
gathered what I could from books, but really feared being obliged to give up
a singularly good illustrative scene for want of the commonest facts
concerning the social life of the Cingalese. I found scarcely any thing even
in Maria Graham and Heber. At this precise time, a friend happened to bring
to my lodging, for a call, the person who could be most useful to me,—Sir
Alexander Johnstone, who had just returned from governing Ceylon, where he
had abolished Slavery, established Trial by Jury, and become more thoroughly
acquainted with the Cingalese than perhaps any other man then in England. It
was a remarkable chance; and we made the most of it; for Sir Alexander
Johnstone was as well pleased to have the cause of the Cingalese pleaded as
I was to become qualified to do it. Before we had known one another half an
hour, I confided to him my difficulty. He started off, promising to return
presently; and he was soon at the door again, with his carriage full of
books, prints and other illustrations, affording information not to be found
in any ordinarily accessible books. Among the volumes he left with me was a
Colombo almanack, which furnished me with names, notices of customs, and
other valuable matters. The friend who
page: 186 had
brought us together was highly delighted with the success of the
introduction, and bestirred himself to see what else he could do. He invited
me to dinner the next day (aware that there was no time to lose;) and at his
table I met as many persons as he could pick up who had recently been in
Ceylon. Besides Sir Alexander Johnstone, there was Holman, the blind
traveller, and Captain Mangles, and two or three more; and a curiously
oriental day we had of it, in regard to conversation and train of thought. I
remember learning a lesson that day on other than Cingalese matters. Poor
Holman boasted of his achievements in climbing mountains, and of his always
reaching the top quicker than his comrades; and he threw out some sarcasms
against the folly of climbing mountains at all, as waste of time, because
there were no people to be found there, and there was generally rain and
cold. It evidently never occurred to him that people with eyes climb
mountains for another purpose than a race against time; and that his
comrades were pausing to look about them when he outstripped them. It was a
hint to me never to be critical in like manner about the pleasures of the
ear.—After I had become a traveller, Sydney Smith amused himself about my
acquaintance with Holman; and I believe it was reading what I said in the
preface to my American book which put his harmless jokes into his head. In
that preface I explained the extent to which my deafness was a
disqualification for travel, and for reporting of it: and I did it because I
knew that, if I did not, the slaveholders would make my deafness a pretext
for setting aside any part of my testimony which they did not like. Soon
after this preface appeared, and when he had heard from me of my previous
meeting with Holman, Sydney Smith undertook to answer a question asked by
somebody at a dinner party, what I was at that time about. “She is writing a
book,” said Sydney Smith, “to prove that the only travellers who are fit to
write books must be both blind and deaf.”

My number on the monopolies in cinnamon and pearls went off pleasantly after
my auspicious beginning. Sir A. Johnstone watched over its progress, and
seriously assured me afterwards,
page: 187 in a call
made for the purpose, that there was, to the best of his belief, not a
single error in the tale. There was much wrath about it in Ceylon, however;
and one man published a book to show that every statement of mine, on every
point, from the highest scientific to the lowest descriptive, was absolutely
the opposite of the truth. This personage was an Englishman, interested in
the monopoly: and the violence of his opposition was of service to the right
side.

Soon after I went to my London lodgings, my mother came up, and spent two or
three weeks with me. I saw at once that she would never settle comfortably
at Norwich again; and I had great difficulty in dissuading her from at once
taking a house which was very far beyond any means that I considered it
right to reckon on. For the moment, and on occasion of her finding the
particular house she had set her mind on quite out of the question, I
prevailed on her to wait. I could not wonder at her desire to come up, and
enjoy such society as she found me in the midst of; and I thought it, on the
whole, a fortunate arrangement when, under the sanction of two of my
brothers, she took the small house in Fludyer Street, Westminster, where the
rest of my London life was passed. That small house had, for a wonder, three
sitting‐rooms; and we three ladies needed this. The house had no nuisances,
and was as airy as a house in Fludyer Street could well be: and its being on
the verge of St James’s Park was a prodigious advantage for us all,—the Park
being to us, in fact, like our own garden. We were in the midst of the
offices, people and books which it was most desirable for me to have at
hand; and the house was exactly the right size for us; and of the right
cost,—now that I was able to pay the same amount as my aunt towards the
expenses of our household. My mother’s little income, with these additions,
just sufficed;—allowance being made for the generosity which she loved to
exercise. I may as well finish at once what I have to say about this matter.
For a time, as I anticipated, all went well. My mother’s delight in her new
social sphere was extreme. But, as I had also anticipated, troubles arose.
For one of two great troubles, meddlers and mischief‐makers were mainly
answerable.
page: 188 The other could not be
helped. It was, (to pass it over as lightly as possible) that my mother, who
loved power and had always been in the habit of exercising it, was hurt at
confidence being reposed in me, and distinctions shown, and visits paid to
me; and I, with every desire to be passive, and being in fact wholly passive
in the matter, was kept in a state of constant agitation at the influx of
distinctions which I never sought, and which it was impossible to impart.
What the meddlers and mischief‐makers did was to render my old ladies, and
especially my mother, discontented with the lowliness of our home. They were
for ever suggesting that I ought to live in some sort of style,—to have a
larger house in a better street, and lay out our mode of living for the
society in which I was moving. Of course they were not my own earned friends
who made such suggestions. Their officiousness proved their vulgarity: and
my mother saw and said this. Yet, every word told upon her heart; and
thence, every word helped to pull down my health and strength. No change
could be made but by my providing the money; and I could not conscientiously
engage to do it. It was my fixed resolution never to mortgage my brains.
Scott’s recent death impressed upon me an awful lesson about that. Such an
effort as that of producing my Series was one which could never be repeated.
Such a strain was quite enough for one lifetime. I did not receive any thing
like what I ought for the Series, owing to the hard terms under which it was
published. I had found much to do with my first gains from it; and I was
bound in conscience to lay by for a time of sickness or adversity, and for
means of recreation, when my task should be done. I therefore steadily
refused to countenance any scheme of ambition, or to alter a plan of life
which had been settled with deliberation, and with the sanction of the
family. To all remonstrances about my own dignity my reply was that if my
acquaintance cared for me, they would come and see me in a small house and a
narrow street: and all who objected to the smallness of either might stay
away. I could not expose myself to the temptation to write in a
money‐getting spirit; nor yet to the terrible anxieties of assuming a
position which could be maintained only by
ex‐
page: 189 cessive
excessive
toil. It was necessary to preserve my independence of thought and
speech, and my power of resting, if necessary;—to have, in short, the world
under my feet instead of hanging round my neck: and therefore did I refuse
all intreaty and remonstrance about our house and mode of living. I was
supported, very cordially, by the good cousin who managed my affairs for me:
but an appeal to my brothers became necessary, at last. They simply elicited
by questions the facts that the circumstances were unchanged;—that the house
was exactly what we had expected; that our expenses had been accurately
calculated; and that my mother’s income was the same as when she had
considered the house a proper one for our purposes: in short, that there was
no one good reason for a change. The controversy was thus closed; but not
before the train was laid for its being closed in another manner. The
anxieties of my home were too much for me, and I was by that time wearing
down fast. The illness which laid me low for nearly six years at length
ensued; and when it did, there could be no doubt in any mind of its being
most fortunate that I had contracted no responsibilities which I could not
fulfil. It was a great fault in me, (and I always knew that it was) that I
could not take these things more lightly. I did strive to be superior to
them: but I began life, as I have said, with a most beggarly set of nerves;
I had gone through such an amount of suffering and vicissitude as had
weakened my physique, if it had
strengthened my morale; and now, I was
under a pressure of toil which left me no resource wherewith to meet any
constant troubling of the affections. I held my purpose, because it was
clearly right: but I could not hold my health and nerve. They gave way; and
all questions about London residence were settled a few years after by our
leaving London altogether. Soon after my illness laid me low, my dear old
aunt died; and my mother removed to Liverpool, to be taken care of by three
of her children who were settled there.

I was entering upon the first stage of this career of anxiety when I was
writing my twenty‐first number,—“A Tale of the Tyne.” The preparation of it
was terribly laborious, for I had
page: 190 to
superintend at that time the removal into the Fludyer Street house. The
weather was hot, and the unsettlement extreme. I had to hire and initiate
the servants, to receive and unpack the furniture; and to sit down at night,
when all this was done, to write my number. At that time, of all seasons,
arose a very serious trouble, which not only added to my fatigue of
correspondence in the day, but kept me awake at night by very painful
feelings of indignation, grief and disappointment. It was thought desirable,
by myself as well as by others, that my plan of Illustration of Political
Economy should be rendered complete by some numbers on modes of Taxation.
The friends with whom I discussed the plan reminded me that I must make
fresh terms with Charles Fox, the publisher. They were of opinion that I had
already done more than enough for him by continuing the original terms
through the whole series thus far, the agreement being dissoluble at the end
of every five numbers, and he having never fulfilled, more or less, the
original condition of obtaining subscribers. He had never obtained one. I
accordingly wrote to Mr. Charles Fox, to inquire whether he was willing to
publish five additional number on the usual terms of booksellers’
commission. The reply was from his brother; and it was long before I got
over the astonishment and pain that it caused. He claimed, for Charles, half
the profits of the series, to whatever length it might extend. He supported
the claim by a statement of eight reasons, so manifestly unsound that I was
equally ashamed for myself and for him that he should have ventured to try
them upon me. In my reply, I said that there was no foundation in law or
equity for such a claim. As Mr. Charles Fox wrote boastfully of the legal
advice he should proceed upon, I gladly placed this affair in the hands of a
sound lawyer,—under the advice of my counsellors in the business. I put all
the documents,—the original agreement and the whole correspondence,—into my
lawyer’s hands; and his decision was that my publisher, in making this
claim, had “not a leg to stand upon.” I was very sure of this; but the pain
was not lessened thereby. I could not but feel that I had thrown away my
consideration and my money upon a man who made this
page: 191 consideration the ground of an attempt to extort
more. The whole invention and production of the work had been mine; and the
entire sale was, by his own admission, owing to me. The publisher, holding
himself free to back out of a losing bargain if I had not instantly
succeeded, had complacently pocketed his commission of thirty per cent (on
the whole) and half the profits, for simply selling the book to the public
whom I sent to his shop: and now he was threatening to go to law with me for
a prolongation of his unparalleled bargain. I sent him my lawyer’s decision,
and added that, as I disliked squabbles between acquaintances on money
matters, I should obviate all pretence of a claim on his part by making the
new numbers a supplement, with a new title,—calling them “Illustrations of
Taxation.” I did not take the work out of his hands, from considerations of
convenience to all parties: but I made no secret of his having lost me for a
client thenceforth. He owed to me such fortune as he had; and he had now
precluded himself from all chance of further connexion. He published the
Supplement, on the ordinary terms of commission: and there was an end. I
remember nothing of that story,—“A Tale of the Tyne;” and I should be rather
surprised if I did under the circumstances. The only incident that I read
about it is that Mr. Malthus called on purpose to thank me for a passage, or
a chapter, (which has left no trace in my memory) on the glory and beauty of
love and the blessedness of domestic life; and that others, called stern
Benthamites, sent round messages to me to the same effect. They said, as Mr.
Malthus did, that they had met with a faithful expositor at last.

In “Briery Creek” I indulged my life‐long sentiment of admiration and love of
Dr. Priestley, by making him, under a thin disguise, the hero of my tale. I
was staying at Lambton Castle when that number appeared; and I was extremely
surprised by being asked by Lady Durham who Dr. Priestley was, and all that
I could tell her about him. She had seen in the newspapers that my hero was
the Doctor; and I found that she, the daughter of the Prime Minister, had
never heard of the Birmingham riots! I was struck by this evidence of what
fear‐
page: 192 ful
fearful
things may take place in a country, unknown to the families of the
chief men in it.

Of number twenty‐three, “The Three Ages,” I remember scarcely any thing. The
impression remaining is that I mightily enjoyed the portraiture of Wolsey
and More, and especially a soliloquy or speech of Sir Thomas More’s. What it
is about I have no recollection whatever: and I need not say that I have
never looked at the story from the day of publication till now: but I have a
strong impression that I should condemn it, if I were to read it now. I have
become convinced that it is a mistake of serious importance attempt to put
one’s mind of the nineteenth century into the thought of the sixteenth; and
wrong, as a matter of taste, to fall into a sort of slang style, or
mannerism, under the notion of talking old English. The temptation is strong
to young people whose historical associations are vivid, while their
intellectual sympathy is least discriminating; and young writers of a
quarter of a century ago may claim special allowance from the fact that
Scott’s historical novels were then at the height of their popularity; but I
believe that, all allowance being made, I should feel strong disgust at the
affectations which not only made me very complacent at the time, but brought
to me not a few urgent requests that I would write historical novels.
Somewhere in that number there is a passage which Lord John Russell declared
to be treason, saying that it would undoubtedly bear a prosecution. The
publisher smirked at this, and heartily wished somebody would prosecute. We
could not make out what passage his Lordship meant; but we supposed it was
probably that part which expresses pity for the Royal Family in regard to
the mode in which their subsistence is provided;—such of them, I mean, as
have not official duties. If it be that passage, I can only say that every
man and every woman who is conscious of the blessing of living either by
personal exertion or on hereditary property is thus declared guilty of
treason in thought, whenever the contrast of a pensioned or eleemosynary
condition and an independent one presents itself, in connexion with the
royal family, as it was in the last generation. It might be in some other
passage, however, that the
lia‐
page: 193 bility
liability
lurked. I did not look very closely; for I cannot say that I
should have at all relished the prosecution,—the idea of which was so
exhilarating to my publisher.

Number twenty‐four, “The Farrers of Budge Row,” seems on the whole to be
considered the best story of the Series. I have been repeatedly exhorted to
reproduce the character of Jane in a novel. This Jane was so far a personal
acquaintance of mine that I had seen her, two or three times, on her stool
behind the books, at the shop where we bought our cheese, in the
neighbourhood of Fludyer Street. Her old father’s pride then was in his
cheeses,—which deserved his devotion as much as cheeses can: but my mother
and I were aware that his pride had once a very different object; and it was
this knowledge which made me go to the shop, to get a sight of the father
and daughter. There had been a younger brother of that quiet woman, who had
been sent to college, and educated for one of the learned professions; but
his father changed his mind, and insisted so cruelly and so long on the
young man being his shopman, that the poor fellow died broken‐hearted. This
anecdote, and an observation that I heard on the closeness with which the
daughter was confined to the desk originated the whole story.

I wrote the chief part of the concluding number, “The Moral of Many Fables,”
during the journey to the north which I took to see my old grandmother
before my departure for America, and to visit my eldest sister at Newcastle,
and Lord and Lady Durham at Lambton Castle. The fatigue was excessive; and
when at Lambton, I went down a coal‐pit, in order to see some things which I
wanted to know. The heats and draughts of the pit, combined with the fatigue
of an unbroken journey by mail from Newcastle to London, in December, caused
me a severe attack of inflammation of the liver, and compelled the omission
of a month in the appearance of my numbers. The toil and anxiety incurred to
obtain the publication of the work had, as I have related, disordered my
liver, two years before. I believe I had never been quite well, during those
two years; and the toils and domestic anxieties of the autumn of 1833 had
prepared me for overthrow by the first accident.—After struggling for ten
page: 194 days to rise from my bed, I was compelled
to send word to printer and publisher that I must stop for a month. Mr. Fox
(the elder) sent a cheering and consolatory note which enabled me to give
myself up to the pleasure of being ill, and lying still, (as still as the
pain would let me) without doubt or remorse. There was something to be done
first, however; for the printer’s note was not quite such a holiday matter
as Mr. Fox’s. It civilly explained that sixteen guineas’ worth of paper had
been wetted, which would be utterly spoiled, if not worked off immediately.
It was absolutely necessary to correct two proofs, which, as it happened,
required more attention than any which had ever passed under my eye, from
their containing arithmetical statements. Several literary friends had
offered to correct my proofs; but these were not of a kind to be so disposed
of. So, I set to work, with dizzy eyes and a quivering brain; propped up
with pillows, and my mother and the maid alternately sitting by me with sal
volatile, when I believed I could work a little. I was amused to hear, long
afterwards, that it was reported to be my practice to work in this
delightful style,—“when exhausted, to be supported in bed by her mother and
her maid.” These absurd representations about myself and my ways taught me
some caution in receiving such as were offered me about other authors.

It was no small matter, by this time, to have a month’s respite from the
fluctuations of mind which I underwent about every number of my work. These
fluctuations were as regular as the tides; but I did not recognize this fact
till my mother pointed it out in a laughing way which did me a world of
good. When I told her, as she declared I did once a month, that the story I
was writing would prove an utter failure, she was uneasy for the first few
months, but afterwards amused: and her amusement was a great support to me.
The process was indeed a pretty regular one. I was fired with the first
conception, and believed that I had found a treasure. Then, while at work, I
alternately admired and despised what I wrote. When finished, I was in
absolute despair; and then, when I saw it in print, I was surprised to see
how well it looked. After an interval of above
page: 195 twenty years, I have not courage to look at a
single number,—convinced that I should be disgusted by bad taste and
metaphysics in almost every page. Long before I had arrived at this closing
number, my mother and aunt had got into the way of smiling at each other,
and at me, whenever I bade them prepare for disgrace; and they asked me how
often I had addressed the same exhortation to them before.—There was another
misery of a few hours long which we had to bear once a month: and that was
the sending the manuscript to the printing‐office. This panic was the tax I
have always paid for making no copy of any thing I write. I sent the parcel
by a trusty messenger, who waited for a receipt. One day, the messenger did
not return for several hours,—the official being absent whose duty it was to
receive such packets. My mother said, “I tell you what, Harriet; I can’t
bear this .........” “Nor I either,” I replied. “We must carry it ourselves
next time.” “So I would every time; but I doubt our being the safest
messengers,” I was replying, when the note of acknowledgment was brought in.
Now, at this new year 1834, I had a whole month of respite from all such
cares, and could lie in bed without grudging the hours as they passed. It
was indeed a significant yielding when, in 1831, I gave way to solicitations
to produce a number a month. I did give way, (though with a trembling heart)
because I knew that when I had once plunged into an enterprise, I always got
through it, at whatever cost. I could not have asked any body to go into
such an undertaking; and the cost was severe: but I got through; and,—if my
twenty‐fourth number was really the best, as people said,—without
disgrace.

I was not through it yet, however. The “Illustrations of Taxation” had still
to be written. I had designed six; and I forget when and why I determined
there should be only five: but I rather think it was when I found the first
series must have an additional number. All I am sure of is that it was a
prodigious relief, which sent my spirits up sky high, when I resolved to
spare myself a month’s work. Rest and leisure had now become far more
important to me than fame and money. Nothing struck me so much, or left so
deep and abiding an impression after the
page: 196
close of this arduous work, as my new sense of the value of time. A month
had never before appeared to me what it now became; and I remember the real
joy of finding in February, 1832, that it was leap year, and that I had a
day more at my command than I had calculated. The abiding effect has perhaps
not been altogether good. No doubt I have done more than I should without
such an experience: but I think it has narrowed my mind. When I consider how
some who knew me well have represented me as “industrious in my pleasures;”
and how some of my American friends had a scheme at Niagara to see whether I
could pass a day without asking or telling what o’clock it was, I feel
convinced that my respect for “time and the hour” has been too much of a
superstition and a bigotry. say this now (1855) while finding that I
can be idle; while, in fact, feeling myself free to do what
I please,—that is, what illness admits of my doing, for above half of every
day. I find, in the last stage of life, that I can play and be
idle; and that I enjoy it. But I still think that the conflict between
constitutional indolence and an overwrought sense of the value of time has
done me some harm in the midst of some important good.

The Taxation numbers had, as I have said, still to be done; and, I think, the
last of the Poor‐law tales. I was aware that, of all the many weak points of
the Grey administration, the weakest was Finance. Lord Althorp, then
Chancellor of the Exchequer, complained of the hardship of being put into
that office, when Nature had made him a grazier. It struck me that some good
might be done, and no harm, if my Illustrations proceeded pari passu with the financial reforms expected
from the Whig government; and I spoke on the subject to Lieutenant Drummond,
who had just become private secretary to Lord Althorp. I was well acquainted
with Mr. Drummond; and it occurred very naturally that I told him that if he
knew of any meditated measure which would be aided by illustration, would
help, in all silence and discretion,—provided always that I approved of the
scheme. About this time, the London shopkeepers were raising a selfish
outcry against the House‐tax, one
page: 197 of the
very best on the list of imposts. It was understood on all hands that the
clamour was not raised by the house‐owners, but by their tenants, whose
rents had been fixed in consideration of their payment of the tax. If they
could get rid of the tax, the tenants would pocket the amount during the
remaining term of their leases. Large and noisy deputations besieged the
Treasury; and many feared that the good‐natured Lord Althorp would yield.
Just at this time, Mr. Drummond called on me, with a private message from
Lords Grey and Athorp, to ask whether it would suit my purpose to treat of
Tithes at once, instead of later,—the reason for such inquiry being quite at
my service. As the principles of Taxation involve no inexorable order, like
those of Political Economy at large, I had no objection to take any topic
first which might be most useful. When I had said so, Mr. Drummond explained
that a tithe measure was prepared by the Cabinet which Ministers would like
to have introduced to the people by my Number on that subject, before they
themselves introduced it in parliament. Of course, this proceeded on the
supposition that the measure would be approved by me. Mr. Drummond said he
would bring the document, on my promising that no eye but my own should see
it, and that I would not speak of the affair till it was settled;—and,
especially, not to any member of any of the Royal Commissions, then so
fashionable. It was a thing unheard of, Mr. Drummond said, to commit any
cabinet measure to the knowledge of any body out of the Cabinet before it
was offered to parliament. Finally, the Secretary intimated that Lord
Althorp would be obliged by any suggestion in regard to principles and
methods of Taxation.

Mr. Drummond had not been gone five minutes before the Chairman of the Excise
Commission called, to ask in the name of the Commissioners, whether it would
suit my purpose to write immediately on the Excise, offering, on the part of
Lord Congleton (then Sir Henry Parnell) and others, to supply me with the
most extraordinary materials, by my exhibition of which the people might be
enlightened and prepared on the subject before it should be brought forward
in parliament. The
page: 198 Chairman, Mr. Henry
Wickham, required a promise that no eye but my own should see the evidence;
and that the secret should be kept with especial care from the Chancellor of
the Exchequer and his secretary, as it was a thing unheard of that any party
unconcerned should be made acquainted with this evidence before it reached
the Chancellor of the Exchequer. I could hardly help laughing in his face;
and wondered what would have happened if he and Mr. Drummond had met on the
steps, as they very nearly did. Of course, I was glad of the information
offered; but I took leave to make my own choice among the materials lent. A
few days afterwards I met Mr. Wickham before the Horse Guards, and thought
he would not know me,—so deep was he in reverie. Before I was quite past,
however, he started, and stopped me with eagerness, saying intensely, “O!
Miss Martineau, Starch! Starch!” And he related the wonderful, the amazing
evidence that had reached the Commissioners on the mischievousness of the
duty on starch. I was obliged, however, to consider some other matters than
the force of the evidence, and I declined expatiating on starch, finding the
subject of green glass bottles, soap and sweets answer my purpose better.
These two last, especially, yielded a very strong case.

At the end of a note to Mr. Drummond on Tithes that evening, I expressed
myself plainly about the house‐tax and the shopkeepers, avowing my dread
that Lord Althorp might yield to the clamour. Mr. Drummond called next day
with the promised tithe document; and he told me that he had handed my note
to Lord Althorp, who had said “Tell her that I may be altogether of her
mind; but that if she was here, in my place, with hundreds of shopkeepers
yelling about the doors, she would yield, as I must do.” “Never,” was my
message back, “so long as the House‐tax is admitted to be the best on the
list.” And I fairly told him that the Whig government was perilling the
public safety by yielding every thing to clamour, and nothing without
it.

I liked the Tithe measure, and willingly propounded it in my tale “The Tenth
Haycock.” It was discussed that session, but
page: 199 deferred; and it passed, with some modifications, a session or two
later.—Mr. Drummond next came to open to me, on the same confidential
conditions, Lord Althorp’s scheme for the Budget, then due in six weeks. His
object was to learn what I thought of certain intended alterations of
existing taxes. With some pomp and preface, he announced that a change was
contemplated which Lord Althorp hoped would be agreeable to me as a
dissenter,—a change which Lord Althorp anticipated would be received as a
boon by the dissenters. He proposed to take off the tax upon saddle‐horses,
in the case of the clergy and dissenting ministers. “What shall I tell Lord
Althorp that you think of this?” inquired the Secretary. “Tell him I think
the dissenting Ministers would like it very much if they had any
saddle‐horses,” I replied.—“What! do you mean that they will not take it as
a boon?”—“If you offer it as a boon, they will be apt to take it as an
insult. How should dissenting Ministers have saddle‐horses, unless they
happen to have private fortunes?” He questioned me closely about the
dissenting Ministers I knew; and we found that I could actually point out
only two among the Unitarians who kept saddle‐hones: and they were men of
property.

“What, then, would you substitute?” was the next question. “I would begin
upon the Excise; set free the smallest articles first, which least repay the
expense of collection, and go on to the greatest.”—“The Excise! Ah! Lord
Althorp bade me tell you that the Commission on Excise have collected the
most extraordinary evidence, which he will take care that you shall have, as
soon as he gets it himself.” (It was at that moment in the closet, within
two feet of my visitor.) I replied that the evils of the excise system were
well known to be such as to afford employment to any Chancellor of the
Exchequer for a course of years; and I should venture to send Lord Althorp
my statement of them, hoping that he would glance at it before he brought
out his Budget, I worked away at the two Excise stories (“The Jerseymen
Meeting” and “The Jerseymen Parting,”) making out a strong case, among
others, about Green Glass Bottles and Sweets, more as illustrative examples
than as individual cases.
page: 200 I sent the first
copy I could get to the Chancellor of the Exchequer, a day and a half before
he brought out his Budget. When I opened the “Times,” the morning after, I
was highly amused at seeing that he had made a curious alteration in his
intentions about the saddle‐horse duty, applying the remission to those
clergymen and ministers only whose income was under two hundred pounds a
year,—having evidently no idea of the cost of keeping a horse. Not less
amusing was it to see that he had taken off the duty from green glass
bottles and sweets. He was in fact open to suggestion and correction from
any quarter,—being consciously, as I have mentioned that he said, one of
Nature’s graziers, and a merely man‐made Chancellor of the Exchequer.

By this time, the summer of 1834 was far advanced, and I was much exhausted
with fatigue and hot weather, and the hurry of preparation for my trip to
America. I was drooping in idea over my last number, “The Scholars of
Arneside,” when a cordial friend of mine said, “You will go with great
spirit through your last number,—the final task of such an enterprise.” This
prophecy wrought its own accomplishment. I did go through it with spirit;
and I found myself, after making my calls, with one day left for packing and
preparation. Many interruptions occurred during the last few days which
deferred my conclusion till I felt and saw that my mother was so anxious
that I must myself keep down worry of nerves. On the Friday before I was to
leave home for above two years, my mother said, with anxious kindness, “My
dear, have you done?” “No, mother.” On Saturday night, she put her head in
at my study door, with “My dear, have you done?” “Indeed I have not.” Sunday
came,—my place taken by mail for Tuesday, no packing done, and my number
unfinished! The case seemed desperate. My mother staid at home, and took
every precaution against my being disturbed: but some one came on
indispensable business, and did not release me till our early Sunday dinner
hour. My mother looked anxiously in my face; and I could only shake my head.
After dinner, she in a manner mounted guard over my study door. At five
o’clock I flew down stairs
page: 201 with the last
sheet, with the ink still wet, in my hand. My sister Ellen was with us, and
at the moment writing to some Derbyshire friends. By a sudden impulse, I
seized her paper, and with the wet pen with which I had just written “The
End,” I announced the conclusion of my work. My mother could say little but
“After all we have gone through about this work, to think how it has ended!”
I flew up stairs again to tie up parcels and manuscripts, and put away all
my apparatus; and I had just finished this when I was called to tea. After
tea I went into St. James’s Park for the first thoroughly holiday walk I had
taken for two years and a half. It felt very like flying. The grass under
foot, the sky overhead, the trees round about, were wholly different from
what they had ever appeared before. My business was not, however, entirely
closed. There were the proof‐sheets of the last Number to be looked over.
They followed me to Birmingham, where Ellen and I travelled together, in
childish spirits, on the Tuesday.

My mother had reason for her somewhat pathetic exultation on the conclusion
of my Series. Its success was unprecedented, I believe. I am told that its
circulation had reached ten thousand in England before my return from
America. Mr. Babbage, calling on me one day, when he was in high spirits
about the popularity of his own work, “Machinery and Manufactures,” said,
“Now there is nobody here to call us vain, we may tell each other that you
and I are the only people in the market. I find no books are selling but
yours and mine.” (It was a time of political agitation.) I replied, “I find
no books are selling but yours and mine.” “Well!” said he, “what I came to
say is that we may as well advertise each other. Will you advertise mine if
I advertise yours, &c. &c.?” And this was the work which had
struggled into existence with such extreme difficulty! Under the hard
circumstances of the case, it had not made me rich. I have at this time
received only a little more than two thousand pounds for the whole work. But
I got a hearing,—which was the thing I wanted. The barrier was down, and the
course clear; and the money was a small matter in comparison. It was
pleasant too, to feel the ease of having money, after
page: 202 my straitened way of life for some years. My
first indulgence was buying a good watch,—the same which is before my eyes
as I write. I did not trouble myself with close economies while working to
such advantage; and I now first learned the bliss of helping the needy
effectually. I was able to justify my mother in removing to London, and to
refresh myself by travel, at the end of my task. My American journey cost me
four hundred pounds, in addition to one hundred which I made when there. I
had left at home my usual payment to my mother; but she refused to take it,
as she had a boarder in my place. Soon after my return, when my first
American book was published, I found myself able to lay by one thousand
pounds, in the purchase of a deferred annuity, of which I am now enjoying
the benefit in the receipt of one hundred pounds a year. I may finish off
the subject of money by saying that I lately calculated that I have earned
altogether by my books somewhere about ten thousand pounds. I have had to
live on it, of course, for five‐and‐twenty years; and I have found plenty to
do with it: but I have enough, and I am satisfied. I believe I might easily
have doubled the amount, if it had been my object to get money; or even, if
an international copyright law had secured to me the proceeds of the sale of
my works in foreign countries. But such a law was non‐existent in my busy
time, and still is in regard to America. There is nothing in money that
could pay me for the pain of the slightest deflexion from my own
convictions, or the most trifling restraint on my freedom of thought and
speech. I have therefore obtained the ease and freedom, and let slip the
money. I do not speak as one who has resisted temptation, for there has
really been none. I have never been at a loss for means, or really suffering
from poverty, since the publication of my Series. I explain the case simply
that there may be no mystery about my not being rich after such singular
success as I so soon met with.

One more explanation will bring this long section to a close. I make it the
more readily because it is possible that an absurd report which I
encountered in America may be still in existence. It was said that I
travelled, not on my own resources, but on
page: 203
means supplied by Lord Brougham and his relative Lord Henley, to fulfil
certain objects of theirs. Nobody acquainted with me would listen to such
nonsense; but I may as well explain what Lord Henley had to do with my going
to America. Lord Brougham had no concern with it whatever, beyond giving me
two or three letters of introduction. The story is simply this. One evening,
in a party, Lady Mary Shepherd told me that she was commissioned to bring
about an interview between myself and her nephew, Lord Henley, who had
something of importance to say to me: and she fixed me to meet Lord Henley
at her house at luncheon a day or two after. She told me meantime the thing
he chiefly wanted, which was to know how, if I had three hundred pounds a
year to spend in charity, I should employ it. When we met, I was struck by
his excessive agitation, which his subsequent derangement might account for.
His chief interest was in philanthropic subjects; and he told me, with
extreme emotion, (what so many others have told me) that he believed he had
been doing mischief for many years where he most meant to do good, by his
methods of alms‐giving. Since reading “Cousin Marshall” and others of my
Numbers, he had dropped his subscriptions to some hurtful charities, and had
devoted his funds to Education, Benefit Societies and Emigration. Upon his
afterwards asking whether I received visitors, and being surprised to find
that I could afford the time, some remarks were made about the extent and
pressure of my work; and then Lord Henley asked whether I did not mean to
travel when my Series was done. Upon my replying that I did, he apologised
for the liberty he took in asking where I thought of going. I said I had not
thought much about it; but that I supposed it would be the usual route, to
Switzerland and Italy. “O! do not go over that beaten track,” he exclaimed.
“Why should you? Will you not go to America?” I replied, “Give me a good
reason, and perhaps I will.” His answer was, “Whatever else may or may not
be true about the Americans, it is certain that they have got at principles
of justice and mercy in their treatment of the least happy classes of
society which we should do well to understand. Will you not go, and tell us
what they are?” This, after some
page: 204
meditation, determined me to cross the Atlantic. Before my return, Lord
Henley had disappeared from society; and he soon after died. I never saw
him, I believe, but that once.

After short visits, with my sister Ellen, at Birmingham, in Derbyshire and at
Liverpool, I sailed (for there were no steamers on the Atlantic in those
days) early in August, 1834.